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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OE  CALIEORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  WORKS 

OF 


IVAN  TURGENIEFF 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN  BY 

ISABEL   F.    HAPGOOD 


THE  DIARY  OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 


,V     *^'     ^"•''"'^''«^«A> 


THE  JEFFERSON   PRESS 
BOSTON  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
(HARLKS  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Copyrii^'ht,  1903,  by 
Charles  .Sckiunek's  Sons 


/ )  / 


THE  DIARY 
OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

(1850) 


^''      ', 


THE  DIARY 
OF  A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

Hamlet  of  Ovetchi-Vody,^ 
March  20,  18     . 

THE  doctor  has  just  left  me.  At  last  I 
have  obtained  a  categorical  answer !  Dodge 
as  he  might,  he  could  not  help  saying  what  he 
thought,  at  last.  Yes,  I  shall  die  soon,  very  soon. 
The  streams  are  opening,  and  I  shall  float  away, 
])robably  with  the  last  snows  ....  whither? 
God  knows!  To  the  sea  also.  Well,  all  right! 
If  I  must  die,  then  't  is  better  to  die  in  the  spring. 
But  is  it  not  ridiculous  to  begin  one's  diary  per- 
haps a  fortnight  before  one's  death?  Where  's 
the  harm?  And  in  what  way  are  fourteen  days 
less  than  fourteen  years,  fourteen  centuries?  In 
the  presence  of  eternity,  they  say,  everj^thing  is 
of  no  account — yes;  but,  in  that  case,  eternity 
also  is  of  no  account.  I  am  falling  into  specu- 
lation, I  think:  that  is  a  bad  sign — am  not  I  be- 
ginning to  turn  coward? — It  will  be  better  if  I 
narrate  something.  It  is  raw  and  windy  out  of 
doors, — I  am  forbidden  to  go  out.  But  what 
shall  I  narrate?    A  well-bred  man  does  not  talk 

^  Sheep's- Waters  or  Springs.  —Translator. 

3 


THE  DIARY  OF 

about  his  maladies;  composing  a  novel,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  is  not  in  my  line;  reflections 
about  exalted  themes  are  beyond  my  powers; 
descriptions  of  life  round  about  me  do  not  even 
interest  me;  and  to  do  nothing  is  tiresome;  to 
read — is  idleness.  Eh!  I  will  narrate  to  myself 
the  story  of  my  own  life.  A  capital  idea !  When 
death  is  approaching  it  is  proper,  and  can  of- 
fend no  one.    I  begin. 

I  \\'as  born  thirty  years  ago,  the  son  of  a 
fairly  wealthy  landed  proprietor.  ]My  father 
was  a  j^assionate  gambler;  my  mother  w^as  a  lady 
with  character  ....  a  very  virtuous  lady. 
Only,  I  have  never  known  a  woman  whose  virtue 
afforded  less  satisfaction.  She  succumbed  under 
the  burden  of  her  merits,  and  tortured  everybody, 
l>eginning  witli  herself.  During  the  whole  fifty 
years  of  her  life,  she  never  once  rested,  never 
folded  her  hands;  she  M'as  eternally  bustling  and 
fussing  about,  like  an  ant — and  without  any  re- 
sult whatever,  which  cannot  be  said  of  the  ant. 
An  implacable  worm  gnawed  her  day  and  night. 
Only  once  did  I  behold  her  perfectly  quiet,— 
namely,  on  the  first  day  after  her  death,  in  her 
coffin.  As  I  gazed  at  her,  it  really  seemed  to  me 
that  her  face  expressed  mild  surprise;  the  half- 
open  lips,  the  sunken  cheeks,  and  the  gently-mo- 
tionless eyes  seemed  to  bi-eathe  forth  the  words: 
"  How  good  it  is  not  to  stir!  "  Yes,  't  is  good, 
't  is  good  to  part  at  last  from  the  fatiguing  con- 

4 


A   SUPERFI.UOUS   INIAN 

sciousness  of  life,  from  the  importunate  and  un- 
easy sense  of  existence!  But  that  is  not  the 
point. 

I  grew  up  badly,  and  not  cheerfully.  Both 
my  father  and  my  mother  loved  me;  but  that  did 
not  make  things  any  the  easier  for  me.  My 
father  had  no  power  whatever  in  his  own  house, 
and  no  importance,  in  his  quality  of  a  man 
iiiven  over  to  a  shameful  and  ruinous  vice.  He 
admitted  his  fall,  and,  without  having  the 
strength  to  renounce  liis  favourite  ])assion,  he 
endeavoured,  at  least,  by  his  constantly  affec- 
tionate and  discreet  mien,  by  his  submissive  hu- 
mility, to  win  the  indulgence  of  his  exemplary 
wife.  My  mamma,  in  fact,  bore  her  misfortune 
with  that  magnificent  and  ostentatious  long-suf- 
fering of  virtue  which  contains  so  much  of  self- 
satisfied  pride.  She  never  reproached  my  fa- 
ther for  anything,  she  silently  surrendered  to 
liim  her  last  penny,  and  paid  his  debts ;  he  lauded 
her  to  her  face  and  behind  her  back,  but  was  not 
fond  of  staying  at  home,  and  petted  me  on  the 
sly,  as  though  he  were  himself  afraid  of  con- 
taminating me  by  his  presence.  But  his  ruffled 
features  exhaled  such  kindness  at  those  times, 
the  feverish  smirk  on  his  lips  was  replaced  by 
such  a  touching  smile,  his  brown  eyes,  surrounded 
by  fine  wrinkles,  beamed  with  so  much  love,  that  I 
involuntarily  pressed  my  cheek  to  his  cheek,  moist 
and  warm  with  tears.     I  wiped  away  those  tears 

5 


THE  DIARY  OF 

with  my  handkerchief,   and  they  flowed  again, 

without  effoi-t,   hke  the  water  in  an  o\erfilled 

glass.    1  set  to  crying  myself,  and  he  soothed  me, 

patted  my  hack  with  his  hand,  kissed  me  all  over 

my   face   with   his   quivering   lips.      Even   now, 

more  than  twentv  vears  after  his  death,  when  I 

'    •  ... 

recall  my  poor  father,  dumb  sobs  rise  in  my 
throat,  and  my  heart  beats — beats  as  hotly  and 
bitterly,  it  languishes  with  as  much  sorrow^ful 
compassion,  as  thougli  it  still  had  a  long  time  to 
beat  and  as  though  there  were  anything  to  feel 
compassion  about ! 

My  mother,  on  the  contrary,  alwaj'^s  treated 
me  in  one  way,  affectionately,  but  coldly.  Such 
mothers,  moral  and  just,  are  frequenth^  to  be  met 
with  in  children's  books.  She  loved  me,  but  I 
did  not  love  her.  Yes!  I  shunned  mv  virtuous 
mother,  and  passionately  loved  my  vicious  father. 

But  enough  for  to-day.  I  have  made  a  begin- 
ning, and  there  is  no  cause  for  me  to  feel  anxious 
about  the  end,  w  hatever  it  may  be.  My  malady 
\v\\\  attend  to  that. 

March  21. 

The  weather  is  wonderful  to-day.  It  is  warm 
and  bright;  the  sun  is  playing  gaily  on  the  slushy 
snow;  everything  is  glittering,  smoking,  drij)- 
])ing;  the  s])arrows  are  screaming  like  mad  crea- 
tures around  tlie  dark,  sweating  hedges;  the 
damp  air  irritates  my  chest  sweetly  but  fright- 

6 


A  SUPERFI.UOUS   MAN 

fully.  The  spring,  the  spring  is  coming!  I  am 
sitting  by  the  window,  and  looking  out  across 
the  little  river  to  the  fields.  O  Nature!  Nature! 
I  love  thee  so,  but  I  came  forth  from  thy  womb 
unfitted  even  for  life.  Yonder  is  a  male  sparrow- 
hopping  about  \vitl]  outspread  wings;  he  i- 
screaming — and  every  sound  of  his  voice,  ever}- 
ruffled  feather  on  his  tiny  body  breathes  fortli 
health  and  strength. 

What  is  to  be  concluded  from  tliat?  Nothing. 
He  is  healthy  and  has  a  right  to  scream  and  ruf- 
fle up  his  feathers;  but  I  am  ill  and  must  die — 
that  is  all.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  say  any  more 
about  that.  And  tearful  appeals  to  nature  are 
comically  absurd.    Let  us  return  to  my  story. 

I  grew  up,  as  I  have  already  said,  badly  and 
not  cheerfully.  I  had  no  brothers  or  sisters.  I 
was  educated  at  home.  And,  indeed,  what  would 
my  mother  have  had  to  occupy  her  if  I  had  been 
sent  off  to  boarding-school  or  to  a  government 
institute?  That  's  what  children  are  for — to 
keep  their  parents  from  being  bored.  We  lived 
chiefly  in  the  country,  and  sometimes  v/ent  to 
Moscow.  I  had  governors  and  teachers,  as  is 
the  custom.  A  cadaverous  and  tearful  German, 
Riechmann,  has  remained  particularly  memorable 
to  me, — a  remarkably  melancholy  being,  crip- 
pled by  fate,  who  was  fruitlessly  consumed  by  an 
anguished  longing  for  his  native  land.  My  man- 
nurse,  Vasily,  nicknamed  "  The  Goose,"  would 

7 


THE   DIAKV  OF 

sit,  unshaved,  in  liis  everlasting-  old  coat  of  blue 
frieze,  beside  tlie  stove  in  the  friohtlnlly  sti- 
tiing  atmosphere  of  the  elose  anteroom,  impreg- 
nated throngh  and  throngh  with  the  sonr  odour 
of  old  kvas,  — would  sit  and  2^1ay  cards  with  the 
coachman,  Potap,  who  had  just  got  a  new  sheep- 
skin coat,  white  as  snow,  and  invincible  tarred 
boots,  — while  Riechmann  would  be  singing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  partition: 

"Ileiz,  niein  Her/,  warum  so  traurig? 
Was  bekiimniert  dich  so  sehr? 
'S  ist  ja  schon  iin  fremden  Lande — 
Her/,  mein  Herz,  was  willst  du  mehr?"" 

After  my  father's  death,  we  definitively  re- 
moved to  Moscow.  I  Mas  then  twehe  years  of 
age.  ;My  father  died  during  the  night  of  a  stroke 
of  apoplexy.  I  shall  never  forget  that  night. 
I  was  sleeping  soundly,  as  all  children  are  in 
the  habit  of  sleeping;  but  I  remember,  that  even 
athwart  my  slumber  I  thought  I  heard  a  heavy, 
laboured  breathing.  Sudderdy  I  felt  some  one 
seize  me  by  the  shoulder  and  shake  me.  I  open 
my  eyes:  in  front  of  me  stands  my  man-nurse. 
— "  What  's  the  mattei?  '^"  Come  along,  come 
along,  Alexyei  Mikhailiteh  is  dying.  ..."  I  fly 
out  of  the  })ed  like  a  mad  creature,  and  into  the 
bedroom.  T  look:  mv  father  is  lying  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  all  red  in  the  faee  and  rat- 
tling in  his  throat  most  painfully.    The  servants, 

8 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

with  frightened  faces,  throng  the  doors;  in  the 
anteroom  some  one  inqnires  in  a  hoarse  voice: 
"  Has  the  doctor  been  sent  for?  "  In  the  court- 
yard, a  horse  is  being  led  out  of  the  stable,  the 
gate  is  creaking,  a  tallow  candle  is  burning  in 
the  room  on  the  floor;  mamma  is  there  also,  over- 
whelmed, but  without  losing  either  her  decorum 
or  the  consciousness  of  her  own  dignity.  I  flung 
myself  on  my  father's  breast,  embraced  him, 
and  stammered  out:  "  Papa,  papa!  "...  He  la}^ 
motionless  and  puckered  up  his  eyes  in  a  strange 
sort  of  way.  I  looked  him  in  the  face — unbear- 
able horror  stopjDcd  my  breath;  I  squeaked  with 
terror,  like  a  roughly-grasped  bird.  They 
dragged  me  from  him  and  carried  me  away. 
Only  the  night  before,  as  though  with  a  fore- 
boding of  his  approaching  death,  he  had  caressed 
me  so  fervently  and  so  sadly. 

They  brought  a  dishevelled  and  sleepy  doctor, 
with  a  strong  smell  of  lovage  ^'odka.  My  father 
died  under  his  lancet,  and  on  the  following- 
day,  thoroughly  stupefled  with  grief,  I  stood 
with  a  candle  in  my  hand  in  front  of  the  table  on 
which  lay  the  corpse,  and  listened  unheeding  to 
the  thick-voiced  intoning  of  the  chanter,  occa- 
sionally broken  by  the  feeble  voice  of  the  priest; 
tears  kept  streaming  down  m}^  cheeks,  over  my 
lips,  and  my  collar  and  my  cuffs;  I  w^as  consumed 
with  tears,  I  stared  flxedly  at  the  motionless  face 
of  my  father,  as  though  I  were  expecting  him  to 

9 


y 


TIIK  DIARY  OF 

do  something;  and  my  mother,  meanwhile,  slowly 
made  reverences  to  the  floor,  slowly  raised  her- 
self and,  as  she  crossed  herself,  pressed  her  fin- 
gers strongly  to  her  brow,  her  shoulders,  and  her 
body.  Tliere  was  not  a  single  thought  in  my 
head ;  I  had  grown  heavy  all  over,  but  I  felt  that 
something  dreadful  was  taking  place  with  me. 
....  It  was  then  that  Death  looked  into  mv 
face,  and  made  a  note  of  me. 

We  removed  our  residence  to  Moscow,  after  the 
death  of  my  father,  for  a  very  simple  reason ;  all 
our  estate  was  sold  under  the  hammer  for  debt, 
—  positively  everything,  with  the  exception  of 
one  wretched  little  hamlet,  the  very  one  in  which 
I  am  now  finishing  vi\\  magnificent  existence.  I 
confess  that,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  was  young 
at  the  time,  I  grieved  over  the  sale  of  our  nest; 
that  is  to  say,  in  reality,  I  grieved  over  our  park 
only.  With  that  park  are  boimd  up  my  sole 
bright  memories.  There,  on  one  tranquil  spring 
evening,  I  buried  my  best  friend,  an  old  dog 
with  a  bob  tail  and  crooked  paws— Trixie;  there, 
hiding  myself  in  tlie  tall  grass,  I  used  to  eat 
stolen  apples,  red,  sweet  Xovgorod  apples ;  there, 
in  conclusion,  I  for  the  first  time  behdd  through 
the  bushes  of  ripe  raspberries,  Klaudia  the  maid, 
who,  despite  her  snub  nose,  and  her  habit  of 
laughing  in  her  kerchief,  aroused  in  me  such  a 
tendei-  passion  that  in  her  presence  I  hardly 
breatlied,   felt  like  swooning,   and  was  stricken 

10 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

iliinib.  But  one  day,  on  the  Bright  Sunday,' 
w  hen  her  turn  cHine  to  kiss  my  lordly  hand,  1  all 
but  flung  myself  down  and  kissed  her  patched 
y'oatskin  shoes.  Great  heavens!  Can  it  be  twenty 
years  since  all  that  happened?  It  does  not  seem 
so  very  long  since  I  used  to  ride  my  shaggy, 
chestnut  horse  along  the  old  wattled  hedge  of  our 
park,  and,  rising  in  my  stirrups,  pluck  the  double- 
faced  leaves  of  the  poplars.  While  a  man  is 
living  he  is  not  conscious  of  his  own  life;  like  a 
sound,  it  becomes  intelligible  to  him  a  little  while 
afterward. 

Oh,  my  park !  Oh,  my  overgrown  paths  along 
the  little  pond!  Oh,  unhappy  little  spot  beneath 
the  decrepit  dam,  where  I  used  to  catch  min- 
nows and  gudgeons!  And  you,  ye  lofty  birch- 
trees,  with  long,  pendulous  branches,  from 
behind  which,  from  the  country  road,  the  mel- 
ancholy song  of  the  peasant  used  to  be  wafted, 
unevenly  broken  by  the  jolts  of  the  rough  cart  — 
I  send  you  my  last  farewells!  .  .  .  As  I  part 
with  life  I  stretch  out  iny  hands  to  you  alone. 
I  should  like  once  more  to  inhale  the  bitter  fresh- 
ness of  the  wormwood,  the  sweet  scent  of  the 
reaped  buckwheat  in  the  fields  of  my  natal  spot; 
I  should  like  once  more  to  hear  from  afar  the 
modest  jangling  of  the  cracked  bell  on  our 
parish  church ;  once  more  to  lie  in  the  cool  shadow 
beneath  the  oak -bush  on  the  slope  of  the  famil- 

^  Easter. —Thanslator. 
11 


THE  DIARF  OF 

iar  ravine ;  once  more  to  follow  with  my  eyes  the 
moving  trace  of  the  wind,  as  it  flew  like  a  dark 
streak  over  the  golden  grass  of  our  meadow.  .  .  . 
Ekh,  to  what  end  is  all  this?  But  I  cannot 
go  on  to-day.    Until  to-morrow. 

March  22. 

To-day  it  is  cold  and  overcast  again.  Such  wea- 
ther is  far  more  suitable.  It  is  in  accord  with 
my  work.  Yesterday  quite  unseasonably  evoked 
in  me  a  multitude  of  unnecessary  feelings  and 
memories.  That  will  not  be  repeated.  Emo- 
tional effusions  are  like  liquorice-root:  when  you 
take  your  first  suck  at  it,  it  does  n't  seem  bad, 
but  it  leaves  a  very  bad  taste  in  your  mouth 
afterward.  T  will  simply  and  quietly  narrate 
the  story  of  my  life. 

So  then,  we  went  to  live  in  ^loscow.  .  .  . 

But  it  just  occurs  to  me:  is  it  really  worth 
wjiile  to  tell  the  storv  of  my  life? 

Xo,  decidedly  it  is  not  worth  while.  .  .  .  My 
life  is  in  no  way  different  from  the  lives  of  a 
mass  of  other  people.  The  parental  home,  the 
university,  service  in  inferior  positions,  retire- 
ment, a  small  circle  of  acquaintances,  down- 
right poverty,  modest  pleasures,  humble  occupa- 
tions, moderate  desires  — tell  me,  for  mercy's 
sake,  who  does  not  know  all  that?  And  I,  in 
particular,  shall  not  tell  the  story  of  my  life,  be- 

12 


A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

cause  I  am  writing  for  my  own  pleasure;  and  if 
my  past  presents  even  to  me  nothing  very  cheer- 
ful, nor  even  very  sorrowful,  that  means  that 
there  really  can  be  nothing  in  it  worthy  of  atten- 
tion. I  haci  better  trv  to  analyse  mv  own  char- 
acter  to  myself. 

What  sort  of  a  man  am  1  ?  .  .  .  Some  one  may 
remark  to  me  that  no  one  asks  about  that. — 
Agreed.  But,  you  see,  I  am  dying,  —  God  is  my 
witness,  I  am  dying,  —  and  really  before  death 
the  desire  to  kno^\'  ^\'hat  sort  of  a  fellow  I  have 
been  is  pardonable,  I  think. 

After  having  thoroughly  pondered  this  im- 
portant question,  and  having,  moreover,  no  need 
to  express  myself  bitterly  on  my  own  score,  as  do 
people  who  are  strongly  convinced  of  their  mer- 
its, I  must  confess  one  thing:  I  have  been  an 
utterly  snj)erfluous  man  in  this  world,  or,  if  you 
like  to  put  it  that  way,  an  utterly  useless  bird. 
And  I  intend  to  prove  that  to-morrow,  because 
to-day  I  am  coughing  like  an  aged  sheep,  and 
my  nurse,  Terentievna,  will  give  me  no  peace. 
"  Lie  down,  dear  little  father  mine,"  she  says, 
"  and  drink  your  tea."  ...  I  know  whj^  she 
worries  me:  she  wants  some  tea  herself!  Well! 
All  right!  Why  not  permit  the  poor  old  woman 
to  extract,  at  the  finish,  all  ])ossible  profit  from 
her  master?  .  .  .  The  time  for  that  has  not  yet 
gone  by. 

13 


THE  UlARY  OF 

Marcli  23. 
\\'iNTER  again.     The  snow   is  falling  in   large 
flakes. 

wSuperfluous,  superfluous.  .  .  .  That  s  a  capi- 
tal word  I  have  devised.  The  more  deeply  1 
penetrate  into  myself,  the  more  attentively  I 
scrutinise  the  whole  of  my  own  i)ast  life,  the 
more  convinced  do  I  become  of  the  strict  justice 
of  that  expression.  Superfluous  —  precisely  that. 
That  word  is  not  appropriate  to  other  people. 
.  .  .  People  are  bad,  good,  clever,  stupid,  agree- 
able, and  disagreeable;  but  superfluous  .  .  .  . 
no.  That  is  to  say,  understand  me:  the  universe 
could  dispense  with  these  people  also  ....  of 
course;  but  uselessness  is  not  their  chief  quality, 
is  not  their  distinguishing  characteristic,  and 
when  you  are  speaking  of  them,  the  word  "  super- 
fluous "  is  not  the  first  one  that  comes  to  your 
tongue.  But  I  ....  of  me  nothing  else  could 
possibly  be  said:  superfluous— that  is  all.  Nature 
had  not,  evidently,  calculated  on  my  appearance, 
and  in  consequence  of  this,  she  treated  me  like 
"i  an  unexpected  and  unbidden  guest.  Not  without 
cause  did  one  wag,  a  great  lover  of  Swedish  Avhist, 
say  of  me,  that  my  mother  had  discarded.'  T 
speak  of  myself  now  calmly,  ^^'ithout  any  gall. 
.  .  .  .  'T  is  a  thing  of  the  past!  During  the 
whole  course  of  my  life  I  liave  constantly  found 

^  A  decidedly  vulgar  pun  \n  tlie  original.— Transijvtor. 

14 


A   SUPKIU  LUOUS   MAN 

my  place  occupied,  i)()ssibly  because  I  sought 
my  place  in  the  wrong  direction.  I  Avas, sus- 
picious, bashful,  irritable,  like  all  invalids;  more- 
over, probably  owing  to  superfluous  vanity,  —  or 
by  reason  of  the  deficient  organisation  of  my 
person, — between  my  feelings  and  my  tlioughts 
and  the  expression  of  those  feelings  and  thoughts 
there  existed  some  senseless,  incomprehensible 
and  insuperable  barrier;  and  when  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  overcome  that  impediilient  by  force, 
to  break  down  that  barrier,  my  movements,  the 
expression  of  my  face,  my  entire  being  as- 
sumed the  aspect  of  anguished  tension:  I  not 
only  seemed,  but  I  actually  became  unnatiu'al  and 
affected.  I  was  conscious  of  it  myself  and  made 
haste  to  retire  again  into  myself.  Then  a  fright- 
ful tumult  arose  within  me.  I  analysed  ntyself 
to  the  last  shred;  I  compared  myself  with  other 
people ;  I  recalled  the  smallest  glances,  the  smiles, 
the  words  of  the  people  before  whom  I  woidd 
have  liked  to  expand;  I  interpreted  everything 
from  its  bad  side,  and  laughed  maliciously  over 
my  pretensions  "  to  be  like  the  rest  of  the  world," 
—  and  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  my  laughter, 
I  sadly  relaxed  utterly,  fell  into  foolish  dejec- 
tion, and  then  began  the  same  thing  all  over 
again;  in  a  word,  I  ran  round  like  a  squirrel  in 
a  wheel.  Whole  days  passed  in  this  torturing, 
fruitless  toil.  Come  now,  tell  me,  ])ray,  to  whom 
and  for  what  is  such  a  man  of  use?     Why  did 

15 


THE  DIARV  OF 

this  happen  with  me,  what  was  the  cause  of  this 
minute  fidgeting  over  myself — who  knows? 
Who  can  say? 

I  remember,  one  (hiv  I  was  ch-ivino-  out  of  jNlos- 
cow  in  the  (hhgence.  Tlie  road  was  good,  but 
the  postihon  liad  hitched  an  extra  trace-horse  to 
the  four-span.  Tliis  unhai)py,  fifth,  wholly  un- 
necessary horse,  fastened  in  rough  fashion  to  the 
fore-end  of  a  thick,  short  rope,  which  ruthlessly 
saws  its  liaunches,  rubs  its  tail,  makes  it  run 
in  the  most  unnatural  manner,  and  imparts  to 
its  whole  body  the  shape  of  a  comma,  always 
arouses  my  profound  compassion.  I  remarked 
to  the  postilion  that,  apparently,  the  fiftli  horse 

might  be  dispensed  ^^'ith  on  that  occasion 

He  remained  silent  awhile,  shook  the  back  of  his 
neck,  lashed  the  horse  half  a  score  of  times  in  suc- 
cession with  his  wliip  across  its  gaunt  back  and 
under  its  pufFed-out  belly  —  and  said,  not  with- 
out a  grin:  "  A\'^ell.  you  see,  it  lias  stuck  itself  on, 
that  's  a  fact!  AVliat  the  devil  's  the  use?  " 

And  I,  also,  have  stuck  myself  on.  .  .  But  the 
station  is  not  far  off.  I  think. 

Superfluous.  ...  I  promised  to  prove  the 
justice  of  my  opinion,  and  I  will  fulfil  my 
promise.  I  do  not  consicier  il  necessary  to  men- 
tion a  thousand  details,  (hiily  occurrences  and  in- 
cidents, whicli,  moreover,  in  the  eyes  of  every 
thoughtful  man  might  serxe  as  incontrovertible 
proofs  in  my  favour— tliat  is  to  sav.  in  favour 

16 


A   SUPERITA^OUS   MAN 

of  my  view;  it  is  better  for  me  to  begin  directly 
with  one  decidedly  important  event,  after  which, 
probably,  no  doubt  will  remain  as  to  the  accuracy 
of  the  word  superfluous.  I  repeat:  I  have  no 
intention  of  entering  into  details,  but  I  cannot 
pass  over  in  silence  one  decidedly  curious  and 
noteworthy  circumstance,  —  namely,  the  strange 
manner  in  which  my  friends  treated  me  (1  also 
had  friends)  every  time  1  chanced  to  meet  them, 
or  even  dropped  in  to  see  them.  They  seemed 
to  grow  uneasv:  as  thev  came  to  meet  me  they 
either  smiled  in  a  not  entirely  natm-al  manner, 
looked  not  at  my  eyes,  not  at  my  feet,  as  some 
people  do,  but  chiefly  at  my  cheeks,  hastily  ejacu- 
lated: "Ah!  how  do  you  do,  Tchulkatiirin!  " 
( Fate  had  favoured  me  with  that  name  ^ )  or, 
"  Ah!  so  here  's  Tchulkaturin!  "  immediateh' 
stepped  aside,  went  apart,  and  even  remained  for 
some  time  thereafter  motionless,  as  though  they 
were  trying  to  recall  something.  I  noticed  all  this, 
because  I  am  not  deficient  in  penetration  aud  the 
gift  of  observation;  on  the  whole,  I  am  not 
stupid;  decidedly  amusing  thoughts  sometimes 
come  into  my  head  even,  not  at  all  ordinary 
thoughts;  but,  as  1  am  a  superfluous  man  with  a 
dumbness  inside  me,  I  dread  to  ex])ress  my 
thought,  the  more  so,  as  I  know  beforehand  that 
I  shall  express  it  very  badly.  It  even  seem* 
strange  to  me,  sometimes,  that  people  can  talk, 

^  Derived  from  t.rhnlok,  stocking. —Til,\nsi.ator. 

17 


TIIK  DIAKV  OF 

uiul  so  simply,  so  freely.  ..."  What  a  ealam- 
itv!  !"  vou  think.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  mv 
tongue  pretty  often  itehed,  in  spite  of  my 
dumbness;  and  I  aetually  did  utter  words  in 
mv  youth,  but  in  ri])er  years  I  succeeded  in 
restraining  myself  almost  every  time.  I  would 
say  to  myself  in  an  undertone:  "  See  here, 
now,  't  will  be  better  for  me  to  hold  my  tongue 
awhile,"  and  I  quieted  down.  We  are  all  ex- 
perts at  holding  our  tongues;  our  women  in 
particular  have  that  capacity:  one  exalted  young 
Russian  lady  maintains  silence  so  vigorously 
that  such  a  spectacle  is  capable  of  producing  a 
slight  shiver  and  cold  perspiration  even  in  a  man 
who  has  been  forewarned.  But  that  is  not 
the  point,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to  criticise  other 
people.     I  will  proceed  to  the  promised  story. 

Several  j^ears  ago,  thanks  to  a  concurrence  of 
trivial  but,  for  me,  very  important  circumstances, 
I  chanced  to  pass  six  months  in  the  county  town 
of  O***.  This  town  is  built  entirely  on  a  de- 
clivity. It  has  about  eight  hundred  inhabitants, 
remarkably  ])()or;  the  wretched  little  houses  are 
outraii'couslv  ])ad;  in  the  main  street,  under  the 
guise  of  a  pavement,  formidable  slabs  of  un- 
hewn limestone  crop  out  whitely  here  and  there, 
in  consequence  of  which,  even  the  peasant-carts 
drive  around  it ;  in  the  very  centre  of  an  astonish- 
ingly untidy  square  rises  a  tiny  yellowish  struc- 
ture with  dark  holes,  and  in  the  holes  sit  men  in 

18 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

large  caps  with  visors,  and  pretend  to  be  en- 
gaged in  trade;  there,  also,  rears  itself  aloft  a 
remarkably  tall,  striped  pole,  and  beside  the  pole, 
bv  way  of  order,  at  the  cominand  of  the  author- 
ities,  a  load  of  yellow  hay  is  kept,  and  one  gov- 
ernmental hen  stalks  about.  In  a  word,  in  the 
town  of  O***  existence  is  excellent. 

During  the  early  days  of  my  sojoin-n  in  that 
town  I  nearly  went  out  of  my  mind  with  ennui. 
I  must  say  of  myself  that,  although  I  am  a  su- 
perfluous man,  of  course,  yet  it  is  not  of  my 
own  will ;  I  am  sickly  myself,  but  I  cannot  endure 
anything  sickly.  ...  I  would  have  no  objec- 
tions to  happiness,  I  have  even  tried  to  approach 
it  from  the  right  and  from  the  left.  .  .  .  And, 
therefore,  it  is  not  surprising  that  I  can  also 
feel  bored,  like  any  other  mortal.  I  found  my- 
self in  the  town  of  O***  on  business  connected 
with  the  Government  service.  .  .  . 

Terentievna  is  absolutely  determined  to  kill 
me.     Here  is  a  specimen  of  our  conversation : 

Terentievna.  O-okh,  dear  little  father!  why 
do  you  keep  writing?  It  is  n't  healthy  for  you 
to  write. 

I.     But  I  'm  bored,  Terentievna. 

She.     But  do  drink  some  tea  and  lie  down. 

I.     But  I  don't  feel  sleepy. 

She.  Akh,  dear  little  father!  Why  do  you 
say  that?  The  Lord  be  with  you!  Lie  down 
jiow,  lie  down :  it  's  better  for  you. 

19 


THE  DIARY  OF 

I.     I  shall  (lie  anyway,  Terentieyna. 

She.  The  Lord  forbid  and  haye  mercy!  .  .  , 
A\'ell,  now,  do  you  order  me  to  make  tea? 

/.     I  shall  not  snryiye  this  week,  Terentieyna. 

She.  li-i,  dear  little  father!  Why  do  you 
say  that?  ...  So  I  '11  go  and  prepare  the  sam- 
oyar. 

Oh,  decrepit,  yellow,  toothless  creature!  Is  it 
possible  that  to  you  I  am  not  a  man! 


March  24.     A  hard  frost. 

Ox  the  yery  day  of  my  arriyal  in  the  tovyn  of 
O***,  the  aboye-mentioned  goyernmental  busi- 
ness caused  me  to  call  on  a  certain  Ozhogin,  Kirill 
Matyyeeyitch,  one  of  the  chief  officials  of  the 
county;  but  I  made  acquaintance  with  him,  or, 
as  the  saying  is,  got  intimate  with  him,  two  weeks 
later.  His  house  was  situated  on  the  principal 
street,  and  was  distinguished  from  all  the  rest 
by  its  size,  its  painted  roof,  and  two  lions  on  the 
gate,  belonging  to  that  race  of  lions  which  bear 
a  remarkable  likeness  to  the  unsuccessful  dogs 
whose  birthplace  is  Moscow.  It  is  ])ossible  to 
deduce  from  these  lions  alone  that  Ozliogin  was 
an  opulent  man.  And,  in  fact,  he  owned  four 
hundred  souls  of  serfs; '  he  receiyed  at  his  house 
the  best  society  of  the  town  of  O***,  and  bore 
the  reputation  of  being  a  lu)s|)itable  man.     The 

^  Meaning  male  serfs.     The  women  and  ehildren  were  not 
reekoned.     Thansi^tor, 

20 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

chief  of  police  Ctinie  to  hini,  in  a  broad  carroty- 
liued  drozliky  drawn  by  a  pair  of  horses — a  re- 
markably large  man,  who  seemed  to  have  been 
carved  out  of  shop-worn  material.  Other  officials 
visited  him  also:  the  pettifogger,  a  j^ellowish  and 
rather  malicious  creatiu'e;  the  waggish  surveyor, 
of  German  extraction,  with  a  Tatar  face;  the 
officer  of  Waj's  of  Communication,  a  tender  soul, 
a  singer,  but  a  scandal-monger;  a  former  county 
Marshal  of  Xobility,  a  gentleman  with  dyed 
hair,  and  rumpled  cuffs,  trousers  with  straps, 
and  that  extremely  noble  expression  of  counte- 
nance which  is  so  characteristic  of  people  who 
have  been  under  trial  by  the  courts.  He  was 
visited  also  by  two  landed  proprietors,  insep- 
arable friends,  both  no  longer  young,  and  even 
threadbare  with  age,  the  younger  of  whom  was 
constantly  squelching  the  elder,  and  shutting  his 
mouth  with  one  and  the  same  reproach:  "  Come, 
that  will  do,  Sergyei  Sergyeitch!  What  do  you 
know  about  it?  For  you  write  the  word  prohha 
[cork]  with  the  letter  h.  .  .  .  Yes,  gentlemen," 
— he  was  wont  to  continue,  with  all  the  heat  of 
conviction,  addressing  those  present:  — "  Ser- 
gyei Sergyeitch  writes  not  probka,  but  hrohka." 
And  all  present  laughed,  although,  probably, 
not  one  of  them  was  particularly  distinguished 
for  his  skill  in  orthogra|)hy ;  and  the  unhappy 
Sergyei  Sergyeitch  held  his  peace,  and  bowed 
his  head  with  a  pacific  smile.  But  I  am  forget- 
ting that  my  days  are  numbered,  and  am  entering 

21 


THE  DIARY  OF 

into  too  o-reat  detail.  So  then,  witliout  furtlier 
circuniloeution :  Ozhogin  was  married  and  had 
a  daughter,  EHzaveta  Kirillovna,  and  I  fell  in 
love  with  that  daughter. 

Ozhogin  himself  was  a  commonplaee  man,  nei- 
ther good  nor  bad;  his  wife  was  beginning  to  look 
a  good  deal  like  an  aged  hen;  but  their  daughter 
did  not  take  after  her  ])arents.  She  was  very 
comely,  of  vivacious  and  gentle  disposition.  Her 
bright  grey  eyes  gazed  good-naturedly,  and  in 
a  straightforward  manner  from  beneath  child- 
ishly-arched brows;  she  smiled  almost  constantly, 
and  laughed  also  quite  frequently.  Her  fresh 
voice  had  a  very  pleasant  ring ;  she  moved  easily, 
swiftly,  and  blushed  gaily.  She  did  not  dress 
very  elegantly;  extremely  simple  gowns  suited  her 
best. 

As  a  rule,  I  have  never  made  acquaintance 
quickly,  and  if  I  have  felt  at  ease  with  a  person 
on  first  meeting, — which,  however,  has  almost 
never  been  the  case,  —  I  confess  that  that  has 
spoken  strongly  in  favour  of  the  new  acquain- 
tance. I  have  not  known  how  to  behave  to 
women  at  all,  and  in  their  presence  I  either 
frowned  and  assumed  a  fierce  expression,  or  dis- 
])layed  my  teeth  in  a  grin  in  the  stupidest  way, 
and  twisted  my  tongue  about  in  my  mouth  witli 
embarrassment.  AVith  Elizaveta  Kirillovna,  on 
the  contrary,  I  felt  myself  at  home  from  the  very 
first  moment.     This  is  ho^\'  it  came  about.     One 

22 


A   SUPERFLUOUS  ]MAN 

day. I  arrive  at  O/lio^in's  before  dinnei-,  and 
ask:  "  Is  he  at  honied  "  1  am  told:  "  Ves,  and  he 
is  dressing;  please  eonie  into  the  hall."'  I  go 
into  the  hall;  I  see  a  young  girl  in  a  white  gown 
standino:  bv  the  window,  witli  her  back  toward 
me,  and  holding  a  cage  in  her  hands.  I  curl 
up  a  little,  according  to  my  habit;  but,  neverthe- 
less, I  cough  out  of  propriety.  Tlie  young  girl 
turns  round  quickly,  so  (]uickly  that  her  curls 
strike  lier  in  the  face,  catches  sight  of  me,  bows, 
and  with  a  smile  shows  me  a  little  box,  half -filled 
with  seed. 

"  Will  you  excuse  me?  " 

Of  course,  as  is  customary  in  such  circum- 
stances, I  first  bent  my  head,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  crooked  and  straightened  my  knees  (as 
thouffh  some  one  had  hit  me  from  behind  in  the 
back  of  m}^  legs,  whicli,  as  everybody  knows, 
serves  as  a  token  of  excellent  breeding  and  agree- 
able ease  of  manner) ,  and  then  smiled,  raised  my 
hand,  and  waved  it  twice  cautiously  and  gently  in 
the  air.  The  girl  immediately  turned  away  from 
me,  took  from  the  cage  a  small  board,  and  began 
to  scrape  it  violently  with  a  knife,  and  suddenly, 
without  changing  lier  attitude,  gave  utterance  to 
the  following  words: 

"  This  is  papa's  bull-finch.  .  .  .  Do  you  like 
bull-finches?  " 

1  The  lar^e  music-room,  also  used  for  dancing,  as  a  plaj-rooni  for  the 
children  in  winter,  and  so  forth,  in  Russian  houses.— Translatok. 

23 


THE  DIARY  OF 

"  I  prefer  canary-birds/'  — I  replied,  not  with- 
out a  certain  effort. 

"And  I  am  fond  of  canary-birds  also;  but 
just  look  at  him,  see  how  pretty  he  is.  See,  he  is 
not  afraid." — What  sur})rised  me  was  that  I  was 
not  afraid.  —  "  Come  closer.  His  name  is  Popka." 

I  went  up,  and  bent  over. 

"  He  's  very  charming,  is  n't  he?  " 

She  turned  her  face  toward  me;  but  w^e  were 
standing  so  close  to  each  otlier  that  she  was 
obliged  to  throw  her  liead  back  a  little,  in  order 
to  look  at  me  with  her  bright  eyes.  I  gazed  at 
her:  the  whole  of  her  rosy  young  face  was  smil- 
ing  in  so  friendly  a  manner  tliat  I  smiled  also, 
and  almost  laughed  aloud  with  pleasure.  The 
door  opened;  ]Mr.  Ozhogin  entered.  I  imme- 
diately went  to  him,  and  began  to  talk  with  him 
in  a  very  unembarrassed  way;  I  do  not  know 
myself  how  I  came  to  stay  to  dinner;  I  sat  out 
the  whole  evening,  and  on  the  following  day, 
Ozhogin's  lackey,  a  long,  jjurblind  fellow,  was 
already  smihng  at  me,  as  a  friend  of  the  house, 
as  he  pulled  off"  my  overcoat. 

To  find  a  refuge,  to  weave  for  myself  e^'en  a 
temporary  nest,  to  know  tlie  /)oy  of  daily  rela- 
tions and  liabits.  —  that  was  a  Iiappiness  which 
I,  a  superfluous  man,  without  domestic  memories, 
had  not  experienced  up  to  that  time.  If  tliere 
were  anything  about  me  suggestive  of  a  flower, 
and  if  that  com])arison  were  not  so  threadbare,  I 

24 


A   SUPTaUTJJOUS   INIAX 

would  decide  to  say  that,  from  that  hour,  1  hegan 
to  blossom  out  in  spirit.  Kverything  in  me  and 
round  about  me  underwent  such  an  instantaneous 
change!  JNly  whole  life  was  illuminated  by  love, 
—  literally  my  whole  life,  down  to  the  smallest  de- 
tails,—like  a  dark,  deserted  chamber  into  which 
a  candle  has  been  brought.  I  lay  down  to  sleep 
and  1  rose  up,  dressed  myself,  breakfasted,  and 
smoked  my  pipe  in  a  way  different  from  my 
habit;  I  even  skipped  as  I  walked,  —  really  I  did, 
as  though  wings  had  suddenly  sj^routed  on  my 
shoidders.  I  remember  that  I  was  not  in  doubt 
even  for  a  minute,  as  to  the  feeling  with  which 
Elizaveta  Kirillovna  had  inspired  me;  and  from 
the  very  first  day,  I  fell  in  love  with  her  passion- 
ately, and  from  the  very  first  day,  too,  I  knew  that 
I  was  in  love.  I  saw  her  every  day  for  the  space 
of  three  weeks.  Those  three  weeks  were  the  hap- 
piest time  of  m}^  life;  but  the  remembrance  of 
them  is  painful  to  me.  I  cannot  think  of  them 
alone:  that  which  follo\^^ed  them  involuntarily 
rises  up  before  me,  and  venomous  grief  slowly 
grips  the  heart  which  had  just  grown  soft. 

AMien  a  man  is  feeling  very  well,  his  brain,  as 
every  one  knows,  acts  very  little.  A  calm  and 
joyous  feeling,  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  per- 
meates his  \\hole  being;  he  is  swallowed  up  in 
it;  the  consciousness  of  individuality  vanishes  in 
him— he  is  in  a  state  of  bliss,  as  badly  educated 
poets  say.    But  when,  at  last,  that  "  spell  "  passes 

25 


THE  DIAKV  OF 

off,  a  man  sometimes  feels  vexed  and  regretful 
that,  in  the  midst  of  haj)piness.  he  was  so  unob- 
servant of  himself  that  he  did  not  redouble  his 
thoughts,  his  refleetions,  and  his  memories,  that 
he  did  not  prolong  his  enjoyment  ....  as 
though  a  "  blissful  "  man  had  any  time,  and  as 
though  it  were  worth  while  to  reflect  about  his 
own  emotions!  The  hapj)y  man  is  like  a  fly  in 
the  sunshine.  That  is  why,  when  I  recall  those 
three  weeks,  I  find  it  almost  impossible  to  retain 
in  my  mind  an  accurate,  definite  impression,  the 
more  so,  as  in  the  whole  course  of  that  time,  no- 
tliing  of  particular  note  took  place  between  us. 
....  Those  twenty  days  present  themselves  to 
me  as  something  warm,  young,  and  fragrant, 
as  a  sort  of  bright  streak  in  my  dim  and  grey- 
hued  life.  ]My  memory  suddenly  becomes  im- 
placably faithful  and  clear,  only  dating  from  the 
moment  when  the  blows  of  Fate  descended  upon 
me,  S23eaking  again  in  the  words  of  those  same 
ill-bred  writers. 

Yes,  those  three  weeks.  .  .  .  However,  they 
did  not  precisely  leave  no  images  beliind  in  me. 
Sometimes,  when  I  happen  to  think  long  of  that 
time,  certain  memories  suddenly  float  forth  from 
the  gloom  of  the  past — as  tlie  stars  unexpectedly 
start  forth  in  the  evenino^  skv  to  meet  attentively- 
riveted   eves.      Esi^eciallv   memorable   to   me   is 

••  la 

one  stroll  in  a  "rove  outside  the  town.  There 
were  four  of  us:  old  ^ladame  Ozhogin,  IJza,  I, 

2G 


A  SUPEiiFLLOUS   MAN 

and  a  certain  Bizmyonkoff,  a  petty  official  of 
the  town  of  O***,  a  fair-haired,  good-natured, 
and  meek  young  man.  I  shall  have  occasion  to 
allude  to  him  again.  Mr.  O/.hogin  remained  at 
home:  his  head  ached,  in  consequence  of  his  hav- 
ing slept  too  long.  The  day  was  splendid,  warm, 
and  calm.  I  must  remark  that  gardens  of  enter- 
tainment and  ])ublic  amusement  are  not  to  the 
taste  of  the  Russian.  In  governmental  towns, 
in  the  so-called  Public  Gardens,  vou  will  never 
encounter  a  living  soul  at  any  season  of  the  year ; 
possibly  some  old  woman  will  seat  herself,  grunt- 
ing, on  a  green  bench  baked  through  and  through 
by  the  sun,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  sickly  tree, 
and  that  onl}"  when  there  is  no  dirty  little  shop 
close  to  the  gate.  But  if  there  is  a  sparse  little 
birch-grove  in  the  vicinity  of  the  town,  the  mer- 
chants, and  sometimes  the  officials,  will  gladly  go 
thither  on  Sundays  and  feast-days,  with  their 
samovar,  patties,  water-melons,  and  set  out  all 
those  good  gifts  on  the  dusty  grass,  right  by  the 
side  of  the  road,  seat  themselves  around,  and  eat 
and  drink  tea  in  the  sweat  of  their  brows  until 
the  very  evening.  Precisely  that  sort  of  small 
grove  existed  then  two  versts  distant  from  the 
town  of  O***.  AVe  went  thither  after  dinner, 
drank  tea  in  due  form,  and  then  all  four  of  us 
set  off  for  a  stroll  through  the  grove.  Bizmyon- 
koff gave  his  arm  to  old  ^ladame  Ozhogin  ;  I  gave 
mine  to  Liza.     The  day  was  already  inclining 

27 


THE  DIARY  OF 

toward  evening.  I  was  then  in  the  very  ardour  of 
first  love  (not  more  than  a  fortnight  had  elapsed 
since  we  had  become  acquainted),  in  that  con- 
dition of  passionate  and  attentive  adoration, 
when  vour  whole  soul  innocently  and  involun- 
tarilv  follows  every  motion  of  the  beloved  beinij; 
when  you  cannot  satiate  yourself  with  its  pres- 
ence, or  hear  enough  of  its  ^oice;  when  you  smile 
and  look  like  a  convalescent  child,  and  any  man 
of  a  little  experience  must  see  at  the  first  glance, 
a  hundred  paces  off,  what  is  going  on  in  j^ou. 

Up  to  that  day,  I  had  not  once  chanced  to  be 
arm  in  arm  with  Liza.  I  walked  by  her  side, 
treading  softly  on  the  green  grass.  A  light 
breeze  seemed  to  be  fluttering  around  us,  between 
the  white  boles  of  the  birch-trees,  now  and  then 
blowing  the  ribbon  of  her  hat  in  my  face.  With 
an  importunate  gaze  I  watched  her,  until,  at  last, 
she  turned  gaily  to  me,  and  we  smiled  at  each 
other.  The  birds  chirped  approvingly  overhead, 
the  blue  sky  peered  caressingly  througli  the  fine 
foliage.  i\Iy  head  reeled  with  excess  of  pleasure. 
I  liasten  to  remark  that  Liza  was  not  in  the 
least  in  love  with  me.  She  liked  me;  in  general, 
she  was  not  shy  of  anv  one,  but  I  was  not  fated 
to  disturb  her  childish  tranquillity.  She  walked 
arm  in  arm  with  me,  as  with  a  brother.  She  was 
seventeen  years  old  at  the  time.  .  .  .  And  yet, 
that  same  evening,  in  my  presence,  tliere  began 
in   her   that   quiet,   inward    fermentation,   which 

28 


A    ST^n^^.TJFTJTOTTS   MAN 

prt'CTHles  the  conversion  of  a  eliild  into  a  woman. 
....  1  was  witness  to  tliat  cliange  of  the  whole 
being,  tliat  innoeent  ])er])lexity,  that  trenmlons 
pensiveness ;  I  was  the  first  to  note  that  sudden 
softness  of  glance,  that  ringing  micertainty  of 
voice — and,  oh,  stn])id  fool!  oh,  su])erflnous  man! 
for  a  whole  week  I  \\  as  not  ashamed  to  assume 
that  I,  I  was  the  cause  of  that  change! 

This  is  the  way  it  happened. 

We  strolled  for  quite  a  long  time,  until  even- 
ing, and  chatted  very  little.  I  held  my  peace,  like 
all  inexperienced  lovers,  and  she,  in  all  proba- 
bility, had  nothing  to  say  to  me;  but  she  seemed 
to  be  meditating  about  something,  and  shook  her 
head  in  a  queei  sort  of  way,  pensively  nibbling  at 
a  leaf  which  she  had  plucked.  Sometimes  she 
began  to  stride  forwai-d  in  such  a  decided  way 
.  .  .  and  then  suddenly  halted,  waited  for  me 
and  gazed  about  her  with  eyebrows  elevated  and 
an  absent-minded  smile.  On  the  preceding  even- 
ing, we  had  read  together  "  The  Prisoner  of  the 
Caucasus."  ^  With  what  eagerness  had  she  lis- 
tened to  me,  with  her  face  propped  on  both  hands, 
and  her  bosom  resting  against  the  table!  I  tried 
to  talk  about  our  reading  of  the  evening  before; 
she  blushed,  asked  me  whether  I  had  given  the 
bidl-finch  any  hemp-seed  before  we  started,  be- 
gan to  sing  loudly  some  song,  then  suddenly 
ceased.     The  grove  ended  on  one  side  in  a  rather 

I  By  M.  Y.  Ldrmontoflf. 

29 


THE  DIARY  OF 

steep  and  lofty  eliii";  below  ilowid  a  small,  mean- 
dering river,  and  beyond  it,  i'urtber  tban  the  eye 
could  see,  stretched  endless  meadows,  now  swell- 
ing slightly  like  waves,  now  spreading  out  like 
a  table-cloth,  here  and  there  intersected  with 
ravines.  Liza  and  1  were  the  first  id  emerge  on 
the  edge  of  the  grove;  Bizmyonkoff  remained 
behind  with  the  old  lady.  We  came  out,  halted, 
and  both  of  us  involuntarily  narrowed  our  eyes: 
directly  ()p])osite  us,  in  the  midst  of  the  red-hot 
mist,  the  sun  was  setting,  huge  and  crimson. 
Half  the  sky  w^as  aglow  and  flaming;  the  red 
rays  beat  aslant  across  the  meadows,  casting  a 
scarlet  reflection  even  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
ravine,  and  lay  like  fiery  lead  upon  the  river, 
where  it  was  not  hidden  under  overhanging 
bushes,  and  seemed  to  be  reposing  in  the  laj)  of 
the  ravine  and  the  grove.  We  stood  there 
drenched  in  the  blazing  ]-adiance.  It  is  beyond 
my  power  to  impart  all  the  passionate  solemnity 
of  that  picture.  They  sa\^  that  the  colour  red 
appeared  to  one  blind  man  like  the  sound  of 
a  trumpet;  I  do  not  know  to  what  degree  that 
comparison  is  just;  but,  actually,  there  was 
something  challenging  in  that  flaming  gold  of 
the  evening  air,  in  the  crimson  glow  of  sky  and 
earth.  I  cried  out  with  rapture,  and  immediately 
turned  to  Liza.  She  was  gazing  straight  at  the 
sun.  I  remember,  the  glare  of  the  sunset  was  re- 
flected in  her  eyes  in  tiny,  flaming  spots.  She 
was  startled,  profound i\'  moved.     She  made  no 

30 


A   SI^PERFIJ^OUS   MAN 

answer  to  my  cxclaniation,  did  not  stir  for  a  long 
liiiR',  and  liung  her  head.  ...  I  stretclied  out 
my  liand  to  her;  she  turned  away  from  me,  and 
suddenly  burst  into  tears.  I  gazed  at  lier  with 
secret,  almost  joyful  surprise.  .  .  .  Bizmyonkoff's 
voice  rang  out  a  couple  of  paces  from  us.  IJza 
hastily  wiped  lier  ej^es,  and  witli  a  wavering 
smile  looked  at  me.  The  old  lady  emerged  from 
the  grove,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  fair-haired 
escort;  both  of  them,  in  their  turn,  admired  the 
view.  The  old  lady  asked  Liza  some  question, 
and  I  remember  that  I  involuntarily  shivered 
when,  in  reply,  her  daughter's  broken  voice,  like 
cracked  glass,  resounded  in  reply.  In  the  mean- 
while, the  sun  had  set,  the  glow  was  beginning 
to  die  out.  We  retraced  our  steps.  I  again  gave 
IJza  my  arm.  It  was  still  light  in  the  grove,  and 
I  could  clearly  discern  her  features.  She  was 
embarrassed,  and  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  The 
flush  which  had  spread  all  over  her  face  did  not 
disappear;  she  seemed  still  to  be  standing  in  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun.  .  .  .  Her  arm  barely 
touched  mine.  For  a  long  time  I  could  not  start 
a  conversation,  so  violently  was  my  heart  beating. 
We  caught  glimpses  of  the  carriage  far  awajs 
through  tlie  trees;  the  coacliman  was  driving 
to  meet  us  at  a  foot-pace  over  the  friable  sand  of 
the  road. 

"  Lizaveta  Kirillovna,"  — I  said  at  last,— 
"  why  did  you  weep?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"— slie  answered  after  a  brief 

31 


THE  DIARY  OF 

pause,  l()()kini>'  at  nic  \\itli  her  <)-eiitle  eyes,  still 
wet  with  tears,  —  their  "lanee  seemed  to  me  to 
have  uiulergone  a  ehange,  -  and  again  fell  silent. 

"  I  see  that  you  love  nature  .  ..."  1  went 
on.  —  That  was  not  in  the  least  what  I  had 
meant  to  sav,  and  my  tongue  hardly  stam- 
mered  out  the  last  phrase  to  the  end.  She  shook 
her  head.  1  could  not  utter  a  word  more.  ...  I 
was  waiting  for  something  ....  not  a  con- 
fession—  no,  indeed!  I  was  waiting  for  a  confid- 
ing glance,  a  question.  .  .  .  But  Liza  stared  at 
the  ground  and  held  her  peace.  I  repeated  once 
more,  in  an  undertone:  "  Why?  "  and  received  no 
reply.  She  was  embarrassed,  almost  ashamed, 
I  saw  that. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  we  were  all  seated 
in  the  carriage  and  driving  toward  the  town. 
The  horses  advanced  at  a  brisk  trot;  we  dashed 
swiftly  through  the  moist,  darkening  air.  I  sud- 
denly began  to  talk,  incessantly  addressing  my- 
self now  to  Rizmyonkoff,  now  to  ^Madame  Ozho- 
gin.  I  did  not  look  at  IJza,  but  I  could  not 
avoid  perceiving  that  from  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage her  gaze  never  once  rested  on  me.  At  home 
she  recovered  with  a  start,  but  would  not  read 
with  me,  and  soon  went  off  to  bed.  The  break — 
that  break  of  which  I  have  spoken  — had  been  ef- 
fected in  her.  She  had  ceased  to  be  a  little  girl; 
she  was  already  beginning  to  expect  .  .  .  like 
myself  ....  something  or  other.  She  did  not 
have  to  wait-  long. 

82 


A   SUPEKI  LUOUS   MAN 

But  tliat  night  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  in 
a  state  of  utter  enchantment.  The  confused 
something,  wliich  was  not  exactly  a  foreboding, 
nor  yet  exactly  a  suspicion,  that  had  arisen  within 
me  vanished:  I  ascribed  the  sudden  constraint 
in  Liza's  behaviour  tow^ard  me  to  maidenly  mod- 
esty, to  timidity.  ...  Had  not  I  read  a  thou- 
sand times  in  many  compositions,  that  the  first 
appearance  of  love  agitates  and  alarms  a  young 
girl?  I  felt  myself  very  happy,  and  already 
began  to  construct  various  plans  in  my  own 
mind.  .  .  . 

If  any  one  had  then  whispered  in  my  ear: 
"  Thou  liest,  my  dear  fellow!  that  's  not  in  store 
for  thee  at  all,  my  lad!  thou  art  doomed  to  die 
alone  in  a  miserable  little  house,  to  the  intolerable 
grumbling  of  an  old  peasant-woman,  who  can 
hardly  wait  for  thy  death,  in  order  that  she  msiy 
sell  thy  boots   for  a  song.   .   .   ." 

Yes,  one  involuntarily  says,  with  the  Russian 
philosopher:  "  How  is  one  to  know  what  he  does 
not  know?  "—-Until  to-morrow. 


March  25.     A  white  winter  day. 

I  HAVE  read  over  what  I  wrote  yesterday,  and 
came  near  tearing  up  the  whole  note-book.  It 
seems  to  me  that  my  style  of  narrative  is  too  pro- 
tracted and  too  mawkisli.  However,  as  my  re- 
maining memories  of  that  period  present  no- 
thing  cheerful,   save   tlie   joy   of  that   peculiar 

33 


THE  DIARY  OF 

nature  which  LerniontofF  had  in  view  when  he 
said  that  it  is  a  cheerful  and  a  painful  thing  to 
touch  the  ulcers  of  ancient  wounds,  then  why 
should  not  I  observe  myself?  But  I  must  not 
impose  upon  kindness.  Therefore  I  will  continue 
witliout  mawkishness. 

For  the  space  of  a  whole  week,  after  that  stroll 
outside  the  town,  my  position  did  not  improve 
in  the  least,  although  the  change  in  Liza  became 
more  perceptible  every  day.  As  I  have  alread}'' 
stated,  I  interpreted  this  change  in  the  most  fa- 
vourable possible  light  for  myself.  .  .  .  The  mis- 
fortune of  solitary  and  timid  men — those  who 
are  timid  through  self-love— consists  precisely  in 
this — that  they,  having  eyes,  and  even  keeping 
them  staring  wide  open,  see  nothing,  or  see  it 
in  a  false  light,  as  though  through  coloured 
glasses.  And  their  own  thoughts  and  observa- 
tions hinder  them  at  every  step. 

In  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance  Liza 
had  treated  me  trustingly  and  frankly,  like  a 
child;  perhaps,  even,  in  her  liking  for  me  there 
was  something  of  simple,  childish  affection.  .  .  . 
But  when  that  strange,  almost  sudden  crisis  took 
jjlace  in  her,  after  a  short  perplexity,  she  felt  her- 
self embarrassed  in  my  presence,  she  turned  away 
from  me  involuntarilv,  and  at  the  same  time 
grew  sad  and  pensive.  .  .  .  She  was  expecting 
.  .  .  .  what?  She  herself  did  not  know  .... 
but  I  ....  I,  as  T  have  already  said,  rejoiced 

34 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

at  that  crisis.  ...  As  God  is  my  witness,  I  al- 
most swooned  with  rapture,  as  the  saying  is. 
How^ever,  1  am  wiUing  to  admit  that  any  one  else 
in  my  place  might  have  been  deceived  also.  .  .  . 
AVho  is  devoid  of  self-love?  It  is  unnecessary  to 
say  that  all  this  became  clear  to  me  only  after  a 
time,  when  1  was  compelled  to  fold  my  injiu'ed 
wings,  which  were  not  any  too  strong  at  best. 

The  misunderstanding  which  arose  between 
Liza  and  me  lasted  for  a  whole  week,  —  and 
there  is  nothing  surprising  about  that :  it  has  been 
my  lot  to  be  a  witness  of  misunderstandings 
which  have  lasted  for  years  and  years.  And  who 
w^as  it  that  said  that  only  the  true  is  real?  A  lie 
is  as  tenacious  of  life  as  is  the  truth,  if  not 
more  so.  It  is  a  fact,  I  remember,  that  even  dur- 
ing that  week  I  had  a  pang  now^  and  then  .... 
but  a  lonely  man  like  myself,  I  ^^'ill  say  once 
more,  is  as  incapable  of  understanding  what  is 
going  on  within  him  as  he  is  of  comprehending 
what  is  going  on  before  his  eyes.  Yes,  and  more 
than  that:  is  love  a  natural  feeling?  Is  it  natural 
to  a  man  to  love?  Love  is  a  malady;  and  for  a 
malady  the  law  is  not  written.  Su})pose  my 
heart  did  contract  unpleasantly  within  me  at 
times;  but,  then,  everything  in  me  was  turned 
upside  down.  How  is  a  man  to  know  under  such 
circumstances  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong, 
what  is  the  cause,  what  is  the  significance  of  every 
separate  sensation? 

35 


THE  DIARY  OF 

But,  be  that  as  it  may,  all  these  misunderstand- 
ings, forebodings,  and  hojjes  were  resolved  in  the 
following  manner. 

One  day, — it  was  in  the  morning,  about  eleven 
o'clock,  —  before  I  had  contrived  to  set  my  foot 
in  Mr.  Ozhogin's  anteroom,  an  unfamiliar,  ring- 
ing voice  resounded  in  the  hall,  the  door  liew 
open,  and,  accompanied  by  the  master  of  the 
house,  there  appeared  on  the  threshold  a  tall, 
stately  man  of  five-and-twentv,  who  hastily 
threw  on  his  military  cloak,  which  was  lying  on 
the  bench,  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  Kirill 
Matvyeevitch,  touched  his  cap  negligently  as  he 
passed  me — and  vanished,  clinking  his  spurs. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  —  I  asked  Ozhogin. 

"  Prince  X***,"  —  replied  the  latter,  M'ith  a 
troubled  face; — "he  has  been  sent  from  Peters- 
burg to  receive  the  recruits.  But  where  are  those 
servants?  " — he  went  on  with  vexation:  —  "  there 
was  no  one  to  put  on  his  cloak." 

We  entered  the  hall. 

"  Has  he  been  here  long?  "  —  I  inquired. 

"  They  say  he  came  yesterday  evening.  I  of- 
fered  him  a  room  in  my  house,  but  he  declined  it. 
However,  he  seems  to  be  a  very  nice  young 
fellow." 

"  Did  he  stay  long  with  you?  " 

"  About  an  hour.  He  asked  me  to  introduce 
him  to  01ym])iada  Xikitichna." 

"  And  did  you  introduce  him?. " 

36 


A  SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  did  he  make  acquaintance  with  Lizaveta 
Kirillovna?  .  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  he  made  her  acquaintance,  of  course." 

I  said  nothing  for  a  while. 

"  Has  he  come  to  remain  long,  do  you  know?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  will  be  obliged  to  stay  here 
more  than  a  fortnight." 

And  Kirill  JNIatvyeevitch  ran  off  to  dress. 

I  paced  up  and  down  the  hall  several  times.  I 
do  not  remember  that  Prince  N***'s  arrival  pro- 
duced any  special  impression  on  me  at  the  time, 
except  that  unpleasant  sensation  which  usually 
takes  possession  of  us  at  the  appearance  of  a  new 
face  in  our  domestic  circle.  Perhaps  that  feeling- 
was  mingled  with  something  in  tlie  nature  of 
envy  of  the  timid  and  obscure  Moscow  man  for 
the  brilliant  officer  from  Petersburg.  — '^  The 
Prince,"  — I  thought,  —  "  is  a  dandy  of  the  capi- 
tal; he  will  look  down  on  us."  .  .  .  I  had  not  seen 
him  for  more  than  a  minute,  but  I  had  managed 
to  note  that  he  was  handsome,  alert,  and  easy- 
mannered. 

After  pacing  the  liall  for  a  while,  I  came  to 
a  halt,  at  last,  in  front  of  a  mirror,  ])ulled  from 
my  pocket  a  tiny  comb,  imparted  to  mj^  hair  a 
picturesque  disorder  and,  as  sometimes  hap])ens, 
suddenly  became  engrossed  in  the  contemplation 
of  my  own  visage.  I  remember  that  my  attention 
was  concentrated   with   i)articular   solicitude   on 

37 


THE  DIARY  OF 

iiiv  nose;  the  rather  flabby  and  undefined  out- 
line  of  that  feature  was  affording  me  no  special 
gratification  — when,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  the  dark 
depths  of  the  inclined  glass,  which  reflected  al- 
most the  entire  room,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
graceful  figure  of  Liza  made  its  a]3pearance.  I 
do  not  know  why  I  did  not  stir  and  kept  the 
same  expression  on  my  face.  Liza  craned  her 
head  forward,  gazed  attentively  at  me  and,  ele- 
vating her  eyebrows,  biting  her  li])s,  and  holding 
her  breath,  like  a  person  who  is  delighted  that  he 
has  not  been  seen,  cautiously  retreated,  and  softly 
dre\A'  the  door  to  after  her.  The  door  creaked 
faintly.  Liza  shuddered,  and  stood  stock-still  on 
the  spot.  .  .  .  I  did  not  move.  .  .  .  Again  she 
IDulled  at  the  door-handle,  and  disap])eare(l. 
There  was  no  possibility  of  doubt:  the  expression 
of  Liza's  face  at  the  sight  of  my  person  denoted 
nothing  except  a  desire  to  beat  a  successful  re- 
treat, to  avoid  an  unpleasant  meeting;  the  swift 
gleam  of  pleasure  whicli  1  succeeded  in  detecting 
in  her  eves,  Avhen  she  thought  that  slic  reallv  liad 
succeeded  in  escaping  unperceived,  —  all  that  said 
but  too  clearly:  that  young  girl  was  not  in  love 
with  me.  For  a  long,  long  time  I  could  not  with- 
draw my  gaze  from  the  motionless,  dumb  door, 
which  again  presented  itself  as  a  white  spot  in 
the  depths  of  the  mirror;  I  tried  to  smile  at  my 
own  u})right  figure — liung  my  head,  returned 
honie,  and  flung  myself  on  the  di^'an.     1  felt  re- 

38 


A   SUPERFI.UOl  S   :\IAX 

niarUablv  hecavv  at  heart,  so  lieavv  that  I  could 
not  weep  ....  and  what  was  there  to  weej) 
about?  .  .  .  .  "  Can  it  be?  "  —  I  kept  reiterating 
incessantly,  as  I  lay,  like  a  dead  man,  on  my  back, 
and  with  my  hands  folded  on  m}^  breast:  —  "  Can 
it  be?"  ...  .  How  do  you  like  that  "  Can  it 
be?" 

^Nlarch  26.     A  thaw. 

When,  on  the  following  day,  after  long  hesi- 
tation and  inward  quailing,  I  entered  the  famil- 
iar drawing-room  of  the  Ozhogins',  I  was  no 
longer  the  same  man  whom  they  had  known  for 
the  space  of  three  weeks.  All  my  former  habits, 
from  which  I  had  begun  to  \A'ean  myself  under 
the  influence  of  an  emotion  which  was  new  to  me, 
had  suddenly  made  their  appearance  again,  and 
taken  entire  possession  of  me  like  the  owners  re- 
turning to  their  house. 

People  like  myself  are  generally  guided  not 
so  much  by  positive  facts,  as  by  their  own  im- 
pressions; I,  who,  no  longer  ago  than  the  ])re- 
\'ious  evening,  had  been  dreaming  of  "  tlie  lap- 
tures  of  mutual  love,"  to-day  cherished  not  the 
slightest  doubt  as  to  my  own  "  imhappiness,"  and 
was  in  utter  despair,  although  I  myself  was  not 
able  to  discover  any  reasonable  ])retext  for  my 
despair.  I  could  not  be  jealous  of  Prince  X***, 
and  whatever  merits  he  might  possess,  his  mere  ar- 
rival  was   not    sufficient   instantly   to   extirpate 

39 


THE  DTAHY  OF 

Liza's  inclination  lor  me.  .  .  .  But  stay! — did 
that  inclination  exist  J"  I  recalled  the  j)ast.  "  And 
the  stroll  in  the  forest?  "  I  asked  niyseli'.  '  And 
the  expression  of  her  face  in  the  mirror?  "  — 
"  But,"  I  went  on,  — "  the  stroll  in  the  forest,  ap- 
parently, .  .  .  Phew,  good  heavens!  What  an 
insignificant  heing  I  am!  "  I  exclaimed  aloud,  at 
last.  This  is  a  specimen  of  the  half -expressed, 
half-thought  ideas  whicli,  returning  a  tliousand 
times,  revolved  in  a  monotonous  whirlwind  in  my 
head.  T  repeat,  —  I  returned  to  the  Ozhogins'  the 
same  mistrustful,  suspicious,  constrained  person 
that  I  had  heen  from  my  childliood.  .  ,  . 

I  found  the  whole  family  in  the  drawing-room; 
BizmvonkofF  was  sitting  there  also,  in  one  corner. 
All  appeared  to  be  in  high  spirits:  Ozhogin,  in 
particular,  was  fairly  beaming,  and  his  first 
words  were  to  communicate  to  me  that  Prince 
N***  had  spent  the  whole  of  the  preceding  even- 
ing with  tliem.  — "  ^Vell,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  now 
I  understand  why  you  are  in  such  good  humour." 
I  must  confess  that  the  Prince's  second  call  puz- 
zled me.  I  had  not  expected  that.  Generally 
s|jeaking,  people  like  me  expect  everything  in 
the  world  except  that  wliich  ought  to  happen  in 
the  ordinary  run  of  things,  I  sulked  and  as- 
sumed the  aspect  of  a  wounded,  but  magnani- 
mous man;  I  wanted  to  punish  Liza  for  her  un- 
graciousness; from  whicli,  moreover,  it  must  be 
concluded,  that,  nevertheless,   T  was  n<^t  yet  in 

40 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

utter  despair.  They  say,  in  some  cases  when  you 
are  really  beloved,  it  is  even  advanta^^^eous  to 
torture  the  adored  object;  but  in  im*  25t^)sition, 
it  was  unutterably  stupid.  Liza,  in  the  most  in- 
nocent manner,  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  me. 
Only  old  ]Madame  Ozhogin  noticed  my  solemn 
taciturnity,  and  anxioush^  inquired  after  my 
health.  Of  course  I  answered  her  with  a  bitter 
smile  that  "  I  was  perfectly  well,  thank  God." 
Ozhogin  continued  to  dilate  on  the  subject  of 
his  visitor;  but,  observing  that  I  answered  him 
reluctantly,  he  addressed  himself  chiefly  to  Biz- 
myonkofF,  who  was  listening  to  him  with  great 
attention,  when  a  footman  entered  and  an- 
nounced Prince  N***.  The  master  of  the  house 
instantly  sjDrang  to  his  feet,  and  rushed  forth 
to  welcome  him!  Liza,  on  whom  I  immediately 
darted  an  eagle  glance,  blushed  with  pleasure, 
and  fidgeted  about  on  her  chair.  The  Prince 
entered,  perfumed,  gay,  amiable.  .  .  . 

As  I  am  not  composing  a  novel  for  the  in- 
dulgent reader,  but  simj)ly  writing  for  my  own 
pleasure,  there  is  no  necessity  for  my  having  re- 
course to  the  customary  devices  of  the  literary 
gentlemen.  So  I  will  say  at  once,  without  fur- 
ther procrastination,  'that  Liza,  from  the  very 
first  day,  fell  passionately  in  love  with  the  Prince, 
and  the  Prince  fell  in  love  with  her — partly  for 
the  lack  of  an^i:hing  to  do,  but  also  partly  because 
Liza  really  was  a  very  charming  creature.    There 

41 


THE  UlARY  OF 

was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  fact  that  they  fell 
in  love  with  each  other.  He,  in  all  probability, 
had  not  in  the  least  expected  to  find  such  a  j^earl 
in  such  a  wretched  shell  (I  am  speaking  of  the 
God-forsaken  town  of  Q***) ,  and  she,  up  to  that 
time,  had  never  beheld,  even  in  her  dreams,  any- 
thing in  the  least  like  this  brilliant,  clever,  fasci- 
nating aristocrat. 

After  the  preliminary  greetings,  Ozhogin  in- 
troduced me  to  the  Prince,  who  treated  me  very 
politely.  As  a  rule,  he  was  polite  to  every 
one,  and  despite  the  incommensurable  distance 
which  existed  between  him  and  our  obscure  rural 
circle,  he  understood  not  only  how  to  avoid  em- 
barrassing any  one,  buf  even  to  have  the  appear- 
ance of  being  our  equal,  and  of  only  happening 
to  live  in  St.  Petersburg. 

That  first  evening.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  first  even- 
ing! In  the  happy  days  of  our  childhood,  our 
teachers  used  to  narrate  to  us  and  hold  up  to  us 
as  an  exami)le  of  manly  fortitude  the  young 
Lacedcemonian  who,  having  stolen  a  fox  and  hid- 
den it  under  his  cloak,  never  once  uttered  a  sound, 
but  permitted  the  animal  to  devour  all  his  entrails, 
and  thus  preferred  death  to  dishonour.  ...  I 
can  find  no  better  expression  of  my  uimtterable 
sufferings  in  the  course  of  that  evening,  when, 
for  the  first  time,  I  beheld  the  Prince  by  Liza's 
side.  My  persistent,  constrained  smile,  my  an- 
guished attention,  my  stupid  taciturnity,  my  pain- 

42 


A  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

fill  and  vain  longing  to  depart,  all  this,  in  all 
probability,  was  extremely  noticeable  in  its  way. 
Not  one  fox  alone  was  ravaging  my  vitals  — jeal- 
ousy, envy,  the  eonseiousness  of  my  own  insig- 
nificance, and  impotent  rage  were  rending  me. 
I  could  not  but  admit  that  the  Prince  was  really 

a  very  amiable  young  man I  devoured  him 

with  my  eyes;  1  really  believe  that  I  forgot  to 
wink  as  I  srazed  at  him.  He  did  not  chat  with 
Liza  exclusively,  but,  of  course,  he  talked  for 
her  alone.  I  must  have  bored  him  extremely. 
....  He  probably  soon  divined  that  he  had  to 
do  with  a  discarded  lover,  but,  out  of  compassion 
for  me,  and  also  from  a  profound  sense  of  my 
])erfect  harmlessness,  he  treated  me  with  extraor- 
dinary gentleness.  You  can  imagine  how  that 
hurt  me ! 

I  remember  that,  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
I  tried  to  efface  my  fault;  I  (do  not  laugh  at  me, 
whoever  vou  mav  be  under  whose  eves  these 
lines  may  chance  to  fall,  especially  as  this  was  my 
final  dream)  ....  I  suddenly  took  it  into  m}^ 
head,  God  is  my  witness,  among  the  varied  tor- 
ments, that  Liza  was  trying  to  punish  me  for  my 
arrogant  coldness  at  the  beginning  of  my  visit; 
that  she  was  angry  with  me,  and  was  flirting  with 
the  Prince  merely  out  of  vexation  at  me.  I 
seized  a  convenient  ()])])ortunity,  and  a])])roach- 
ing  her  with  a  meek  but  caressing  smile.  I  mur- 
mured: "  Knough,  forgive  me  .  .  .  however,  I 

43 


TIIK  DIARY  OF 

do  not  ask  it  because  1  am  alVaid  "  —  and  without 
awaiting  her  answer,  I  suddenly  imparted  to  my 
face  an  unusually  vivacious  and  easy  expression, 
gave  a  wry  laugh,  threw  my  hand  up  over  my 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  ceiling  (I  remember 
that  I  was  trying  to  adjust  my  neckcloth),  and 
was  even  on  the  point  of  wheeling  round  on  one 
foot,  as  much  as  to  say:  "All  is  over,  I  'm  in 
fine  spirits,  let  every  one  be  in  fine  s])irits !  "  but 
I  did  not  wheel  round,  nevertheless,  because  I 
w^as  afraid  of  falling,  owing  to  an  unnatural 
stiffness  in  my  knees.  .  .  Liza  did  not  under- 
stand me  in  the  least,  looked  into  my  face  with 
surprise,  smiled  hurriedly,  as  though  desirous  of 
getting  rid  of  me  as  promptly  as  possible,  and 
again  apj)roached  the  Prince.  Blind  and  deaf 
as  I  was,  I  could  not  but  inwardly  admit  that  she 
was  not  at  all  angry  nor  vexed  with  me  at  that 
moment;  she  simply  was  not  thinking  about  me. 
The  blow  was  decisive,  mj'  last  hopes  crumbled 
to  ruin  with  a  crash  — as  a  block  of  ice  pene- 
trated with  the  spring  sim  suddenly  crumbles 
into  tiny  fragments.  I  had  received  a  blow^  on 
the  head  at  the  first  assault,  and,  like  the  Prus- 
sians at  Jena,  in  one  day  I  lost  everything.  No, 
she  was  not  angry  with  me!  .  .  . 

Alas!  on  the  contrary!  She  herself— 1  could 
see  that — w^as  being  undermined,  as  with  a  bil- 
low. Tjike  a  young  sapling,  which  has  already 
half  deserted  the  bank,  she  bent  eagerly  forward 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   ^lAX 

over  tlie  flood,  ready  to  surrender  to  it  both  the 
first  blossoming  of  her  spring,  and  her  whole  hfe. 
Any  one  to  Avhose  lot  it  has  fallen  to  be  a  witness 
to  such  an  infatuation  has  lived  tlirough  bitter 
moments,  if  he  himself  loved  and  was  not  beloved. 
I  shall  forever  remember  tlie  devouring  atten- 
tion, the  tender  gaiety,  the  innocent  self-forget- 
fulness,  the  glance,  lialf-cJiihlish  and  already 
womanly,  the  Iiappy  smile  wliich  blossomed  forth, 
as  it  were,  and  never  left  the  half-])arted  lips 
and  the  blushing  cheeks.  .  .  .  Everything  of 
which  Liza  had  had  a  dim  foreboding  during  our 
stroll  in  the  grove  had  now  come  to  j^ass — and 
she,  surrendering  herself  wdiolly  to  love,  had,  at 
the  same  time,  grown  quiet  and  sparkling  like 
young  wine  which  has  ceased  to  ferment,  because 
its  time  has  come.  .  .  . 

I  had  the  patience  to  sit  out  that  first  evening, 
and  tlie  evenings  which  followed  ....  all,  to 
the  very  end!  I  could  cherish  no  hope  whatso- 
ever. Liza  and  tlie  Prince  grew  more  and 
more  attached  to  each  other  with  every  day  that 

passed But  I  positively  lost  all  sense  of 

my  own  dignity,  and  could  not  tear  myself 
away  from  the  spectacle  of  my  unhappiness.  I 
remember  that  one  day  I  made  an  effort  not 
to  go,  gave  myself  my  word  of  honour  in  the 
morning  that  I  would  remain  at  home,  —  and 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  (1  usually 
went  out  at  seven),  1  jumj)ed  up  like  a  lunatic, 

45 


THE  DIARY  OF 

put    on    my    hat,    and    ran,    panting,    to    Kirill 
Matvveevitch's. 

]My  position  was  extremely  awkward;  I  main- 
tained obdurate  silence,  and  sometimes  for  days 
at  a  stretch  never  uttered  a  sound,  I  have 
never  been  distinguished  for  eloquence,  as  I  have 
already  said;  but  now  every  bit  of  sense  I  had 
seemed  to  fly  away  in  the  presence  of  the  Prince, 
and  I  remained  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse. 
INIoreover,  in  private,  I  forced  my  unhappy 
brain  to  toil  to  such  a  degree,  slowly  pondering 
over  everything  I  had  marked  or  noted  in  the 
course  of  the  preceding  day,  that  when  I  returned 
to  the  Ozhogins',  I  hardly  had  enough  strength 
left  to  continue  my  observations.  They  spared 
me  as  they  Avould  a  sick  man,  I  saw  that.  Every 
morning  I  reached  a  fresh,  definitive  decision, 
which  had  chiefly  been  hatched  out  during  a  sleep- 
less night.  Now  I  prepared  to  have  an  explana- 
tion with  Liza,  to  give  her  some  friendly  advice 
.  .  .  but  when  I  liappened  to  be  alone  with  her, 
my  tongue  suddenly  ceased  to  act,  as  though  it 
had  congealed,  and  we  both  painfully  awaited 
the  appearance  of  a  third  person;  then,  again,  I 
wanted  to  flee,  for  good  and  all,  leaving  behind 
me,  for  the  object  of  my  afl'ections  of  course,  a 
letter  filled  with  reproaches;  and  one  day  I  set 
about  that  letter,  but  the  sense  of  justice  had  not 
yet  quite  vanished  from  within  me;  I  under- 
stood that  1  had  no  right  to  upbraid  any  one  for 

4>Q 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

anything,  and  flung  nw  note  into  the  fire;  again 
I  suddenly  offered  the  whole  of  myself  as  a  sac- 
rifice, in  magnanimous  fashion,  and  gave  Liza 
my  blessing,  wishing  her  happiness  in  her  love, 
and  smiled  in  a  gentle  and  friendly  way  on  the 
Prince  from  a  corner.  But  the  hard-hearted 
lovers  not  only  did  not  thank  me  for  my  sacrifice, 
they  did  not  even  })erceive  it,  and  evidently  stood 
in  no  need  either  of  my  blessings  or  of  my  smiles. 
.  .  .  Then,  with  vexation,  I  suddenly  passed 
over  into  the  diametrically  opposite  frame  of 
mind.  I  promised  myself,  as  I  swathed  myself 
in  my  cloak,  Spanish  fashion,  to  cut  the  lucky 
rival's  throat  from  round  a  corner,  and  with  the 
joy  of  a  wild  beast,  I  pictured  to  mj'self  Liza's 
despair.  .  .  .  But,  in  the  first  place,  in  the  town 
of  O***  there  were  very  few  such  corners,  and, 
in  the  second  place,  a  board  fence,  a  street-lan- 
tern, a  policeman  in  the  distance.  .  .  .  Xo!  at  such 
a  corner  as  that  it  would  be  more  seemly  to  peddle 
rings  of  bread  than  to  shed  human  blood.  I 
must  confess  that,  among  other  means  of  deliv- 
erance,—  as  I  very  indefinitely  expressed  it  when 
holding  a  conference  with  myself,  —  I  thought  of 
appealing  straight  to  INIr.  Ozhogin  ....  of 
directing  the  attention  of  that  nobleman  to 
the  dangerous  position  of  his  daughter,  to  tlie 
sad  consequences  of  her  frivolity.  ...  I  even 
began  to  talk  with  him  one  day  on  tlie  very 
ticklish  subject,  but  framed  my  speecli  so  craftily 

47 


THE  DIARY  OF 

and  obscurely,  that  he  hstened  and  hstened  to  me, 
and  suddenly,  as  though  awaking  from  sleep, 
swiftly  rubbed  the  palm  of  his  hand  all  over  his 
face,  not  sparing  even  his  nose,  snorted,  and 
walked  a\\  ay  from  me. 

It  is  needless  to  say  tliat,  on  adopting  that  de- 
cision, I  assured  myself  that  I  was  acting  from 
the  most  disinterested  motives,  that  I  was  de- 
sirous of  the  universal  welfare,  that  I  was  ful- 
filling the  duty  of  a  friend  of  the  family.  .  .  .  But 
I  venture  to  think  that  even  if  Kirill  ]Matvyee- 
vitch  had  not  cut  short  mj'  effusions,  I  should  still 
have  lacked  the  coiu'age  to  finish  my  monologue. 
I  sometimes  undertook,  with  the  pompousness  of 
an  ancient  sage,  to  weigh  the  Prince's  merits;  I 
sometimes  comforted  myself  with  the  hope  that 
it  was  merely  a  passing  fancy,  that  Liza  would 
come  to  her  senses,  that  her  love  was  not  genuine 
love.  .  .  .  Oh,  no !  In  a  word,  I  do  not  know^  of 
a  thought  over  which  I  did  not  brood  at  that  time. 
One  remedy  alone,  I  frankly  confess,  never  en- 
tered my  head ;  namely,  it  never  once  occurred  to 
me  to  commit  suicide.  Wliv  that  did  not  occur 
to  me,  I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  Perhaps  even  then 
I  had  a  foreboding  that  I  had  not  long  to  live  in 
any  case. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that,  under  such  un- 
toward conditions,  mv  conduct,  mv  behaviour  to- 
ward  other  people,  was  more  characterised  by 
unnaturalness  and  constraint  than  ever.   Even  old 

48 


A    STTPERFUTOXTS   ISIAN 

lady  Ozli()<4iii  tliat  dull-witted  being  — began  tc 
shun  nie,  and  at  times  did  not  know  from  which 
side  to  approach  me.  Bizmyonkoff,  always  cour- 
teous and  ready  to  be  of  service,  avoided  me.  It 
also  seemed  to  me  then  that  in  him  I  had  a  fellow- 
sufferer,  that  he  also  loved  Liza.  But  he  never 
rey^lied  to  my  hints,  and,  in  general,  talked  to  me 
with  reluctance.  The  Pi-ince  behaved  in  a  very 
friendly  manner  to  him;  1  may  say  that  the 
Prince  i-espected  him.  Neither  Bizmyonkoff 
nor  I  interfered  with  the  Prince  and  I^iza;  but 
he  did  not  shun  them  as  I  did,  he  did  not  look 
like  a  wolf  nor  like  a  victim — and  gladly  joined 
them  whenever  they  wished  it.  He  did  not  dis- 
tinguish himself  particularly  Iw  jocularity  on 
such  occasions,  it  is  true;  but  even  in  times  past 
there  had  been  a  quiet  element  in  his  mirth. 

In  this  manner  about  two  weeks  passed.  The 
Prince  was  not  only  good-looking  and  clever:  he 
played  on  the  "piano,  sang,  drew  very  respectably, 
and  knew  how  to  narrate  well.  His  anecdotes, 
drawn  from  the  highest  circles  of  society  in  the 
capital,  always  produced  a  strong  impression  on 
the  hearers,  which  was  all  the  more  ])owerful 
because  he  himself  did  not  seem  to  attribute  any 
particular  importance  to  them.  .  .  . 

The  consequence  of  this  guile,  if  you  choose  to 
call  it  so.  on  the  Prince's  part  was,  that  in  the 
coin'se  of  his  brief  sojourn  in  the  town  of  O*** 
he  absolutely  bewitched  the  whole  of  society  there. 

49 


THE  DIARY  OF 

It  is  always  very  easy  for  a  man  from  the  highest 
circles  to  bewitch  us  steppe-dwellers.  The 
Prince's  frequent  calls  on  the  Ozhogins  (he  spent 
his  evenings  at  their  house) ,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
aroused  the  envy  of  the  other  nobles  and  officials ; 
but  the  Prince,  being  a  man  of  the  world  and 
clever,  did  not  neglect  a  single  one  of  them, 
called  on  all  of  them,  said  at  least  one  pleasant 
word  to  all  the  dames  and  young  ladies,  permitted 
himself  to  be  stuffed  with  laboriously-heavy 
viands  and  treated  to  vile  wines  with  magnificent 
appellations;  in  a  word,  behaved  himself  admir- 
ably, cautiously,  and  cleverly.  Prince  X***  was, 
altogether,  a  man  of  cheerful  disposition,  socia- 
ble, amiable  by  inclination,  and  as  a  matter  of  cal- 
culation also:  how  was  it  possible  for  him  to 
be  otherwise  than  a  complete  success  in  every 
May  ? 

From  the  time  of  his  arrival,  every  one  in  the 
house  had  thought  that  the  time  flew  by  with  re- 
markable swiftness;  everything  went  splendidly; 
old  Ozhogin,  although  he  pretended  not  to  notice 
anything,  was,  in  all  probability,  secretly  rub- 
bing his  hands  at  the  thought  of  having  such  a 
son-in-law.  The  Prince  himself  was  conducting 
the  wliole  affair  very  quietly  and  decorously, 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  an  unforeseen  event  .... 

Until  to-morrow.  To-day  I  am  weary.  These 
reminiscences  chafe  me,  even  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave.    Terentievna  thought  to-day  that  my  nose 

50 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

had  grown  even  more  pointed;  and  that  's  a  bad 
sign,  they  say. 

March  27.  The  thaw  continues. 
Matters  were  in  the  above-described  condition: 
the  Prince  and  Liza  loved  each  other,  the  elder 
Ozhogins  were  waiting  to  see  what  would  hap- 
pen; Bizmyonkoff  was  present  also— nothing 
else  could  be  said  of  him;  I  was  flopping  like  a 
fish  on  the  ice,  and  keeping  watch  to  the  best  of 
my  ability,  — I  remember  that  at  that  time  I  ap- 
pointed to  myself  the  task  of  at  least  not  allow- 
ing Liza  to  perish  in  the  snare  of  the  seducer,  and 
in  consequence  thereof,  I  had  begun  to  pay  par- 
ticular attention  to  tlie  maid-servants  and  the 
fatal  "  back  "  entrance— although,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  sometimes  dreamed  for  whole  nights  to- 
gether about  the  touching  magnanimity  with 
which,  in  the  course  of  time,  I  would  extend  my 
hand  to  the  deluded  victim  and  say  to  her:  "  The 
wily  man  has  betrayed  thee;  but  I  am  th}^  faith- 
ful friend.  ...  let  us  forget  the  past  and  be 
happy!  "—when,  suddenly,  a  joyful  piece  of 
news  was  disseminated  throughout  the  town:  the 
^larshal  of  Nobility  for  the  county  intended  to 
give  a  large  ball  in  honour  of  the  respected  visi- 
tor, at  his  own  estate  Gornostaevka,  also  called 
Gubnyakova.  All  the  hierarchies  and  powers  of 
the  town  of  O***  received  invitations,  beginning 
with  the  chief  of  police  and  ending  with   the 

.51 


THE  DIARY  OF 

apothecary,  a  remarkably  piiiiple-faced  German, 
with  cruel  pretensions  to  tlie  abihty  to  speak  Rus- 
sian purely,  in  consequence  of  which,  he  was  con- 
stantly using  violent  expressions  with  absolute 
inappropriateness,  as,  for  instance:  "Devil  take 
me,  I  feel  a  dashing  fine  fellow  to-da}'."  ^  .  .  . 
Terrible  preparations  began,  as  was  fitting. 
One  cosmetic-shop  sold  sixteen  dark-blue  jars  of 
pomade,  with  the  inscription,  "  a  la  jesmin  "  with 
the  Russian  character  denoting  the  hard  pronun- 
ciation after  the  n.  The  young  ladies  supplied 
themselves  with  stiff  gowns,  torturingh'  tight 
at  the  waist-line,  and  with  promontories  on  the 
stomach ;  the  mammas  erected  on  their  own  heads 
formidable  decorations,  under  the  pretext  that 
they  were  caps;  the  bustling  fathers  laj"  without 
their  hind  legs,  as  the  saying  is."  .  .  . 

The  longed-for  day  arrived  at  last.  I  was 
among  those  invited.  The  distance  from  the 
town  to  (xornostaevka  was  reckoned  at  nine 
\ersts.  Kirila  ^latvyeevitch  offered  me  a  seat 
in  his  carriage;  but  I  declined.  .  .  .  Thus  do 
cliastised  children,  desirous  of  revenging  them- 
selves well  on  their  parents,  refuse  their  favourite 
viands  at  table.  ^Moreover,  I  felt  that  my  pres- 
ence would  embarrass  I^iza.  BizmyonkofF  took 
my  place.  The  Prince  drove  out  in  his  own 
I'alash,   I    in   a  miserable  drozhky,   which   T   had 

'  The  proiiiiiiciation  is  also  indicated  as  beinj?  faulty. — Thansi^atoh, 
-  Ran  themselves  off  their  legs-     Than slatou. 

52 


A   SUPEKFTJ^OITS   MAN 

hired  at  an  exorbitant  price  for  this  festive  oc- 
casion. 

I  will  not  describe  the  ball.  Everytliing  about 
it  was  as  usual:  musicians  with  remarkably  false 
horns  in  the  gallery;  flustered  landed  proprie- 
tors with  anti{]uated  families;  lilac  ice-cream, 
slimy  orgeat;  men  in  patched  boots  and  knitted 
cotton  gloves;  provincial  lions  Avith  convulsively- 
distorted  faces;  and  so  foi-th,  and  so  forth.  And 
all  this  little  world  circled  round  its  sun — round 
the  Prince.  Lost  in  the  throng,  unnoticed  even 
by  the  maidens  of  eight-and-forty  with  pimples 
on  their  brows  and  blue  flowers  on  their  temples, 
I  kept  incessantly  gazing  now  at  the  Prince,  now 
at  Liza.  She  w^as  verv  charminglv  dressed  and 
very  pretty  that  evening.  They  only  danced  to- 
gether twice  (he  danced  the  mazurka^  with  her, 
't  is  true!),  but,  at  all  events,  so  it  seemed  to 
me,  there  existed  between  them  a  certain  mys- 
terious, unbroken  communication.  Even  when 
he  was  not  looking  at  her,  was  not  talking 
to  her,  he  seemed  constantly  to  be  addressing  her, 
and  her  alone;  he  was  handsome  and  brilliant, 
and  charming  with  others — for  her  alone.  She 
was  evidently  conscious  that  she  was  the  queen  of 
the  ball— and  beloved;  her  face  simultaneously 
beamed  with  childish  joy  and  innocent  pride,  and 

1  The  mazurka,  which  is  still  a  great  favourite  in  Russia,  greatly 
resembles  the  cotillon  in  everything  except  the  steps,  which  are  viva- 
cious. Both  the  cotillon  and  the  mazurka  are  danced— one  before, 
the  other  after  supper —  at  Court  balls  and  other  dances.  — TnANSi^Ton. 

53 


THE  DIARY  OF 

then  suddenly  was  lighted  up  with  a  different,  a 
more  profound  feeling.  She  exhaled  an  atmos- 
phere of  happiness.  1  observed  all  this.  ...  It 
was  not  the  first  thne  I  had  had  occasion  to  watch 
them.  .  .  .  At  first  this  greatly  pained  me,  then 
it  seemed  to  touch  me,  and  at  last  it  enraged  me. 
I  suddenly  felt  myself  remarkably  malicious  and, 
I  remember,  I  rejoiced  wonderfully  over  this  new 
sensation,  and  even  conceived  a  certain  respect 
for  myself.  "  Let  's  show  them  that  we  have  n't 
perished  yet !  "  I  said  to  myself.  When  the  first 
sounds  summoning  to  the  mazurka  thundered 
out,  I  calmly  glanced  around,  coldly,  and  with 
much  ease  of  manner,  approached  a  long-faced 
young  lady  with  a  red  and  shining  nose,  an  awk- 
wardly gaping  mouth,  which  looked  as  though 
it  had  been  unhooked,  and  a  sinewy  neck,  which 
reminded  one  of  the  handle  of  a  bass-viol, — ap- 
proached her,  and  curtly  clicking  my  heels  to- 
gether, invited  her  for  the  dance.  She  wore  a 
pink  gown,  which  seemed  to  have  faded  recently 
and  not  quite  completely;  above  her  head  quiv- 
ered some  sort  of  a  faded  melancholy  fly  on  a 
very  thick  brass  s])ring;  and,  altogether,  the 
young  woman  was  impregnated  through  and 
through,  if  one  may  so  express  one's  self,  with  a 
sort  of  sour  boredom  and  antiquated  ill-success. 
From  the  very  beginning  of  the  evening,  she  had 
not  stirred  from  her  seat;  no  one  had  thought  of 
asking  her  to  dance.    One  sixteen-year-old  youth, 

54 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   ISIAX 

in  default  of  any  other  partner,  had  been  on  the 
point  of  appealing  to  this  young  woman,  and  had 
already  taken  one  step  in  her  direction,  but  had 
bethought  himself,  taken  one  look,  and  briskly 
concealed  himself  in  the  crowd.  You  can  im- 
agine with  what  joyful  surprise  she  accepted  my 
proposal ! 

I  solemnly  led  her  the  whole  length  of  the  hall, 
found  two  chairs,  and  seated  myself  A\ith  her  in 
the  circle  of  the  nur/urka,  the  tenth  pair,  almost 
opposite  the  Prince,  to  whom,  of  course,  tlie  first 
place  had  been  conceded.  The  Prince,  as  I  have 
already  said,  was  dancing  with  Liza.  Neither 
my  partner  nor  I  were  incommoded  with  invita- 
tions; consequently,  we  had  plenty  of  time  for 
conversation.  Truth  to  tell,  my  lady  was  not  dis- 
tinguished by  ability  to  utter  words  in  coherent 
speech:  she  employed  her  mouth  more  for  the 
execution  of  a  strange  downward  smile,  hitherto 
unbeheld  by  me;  at  the  same  time,  she  rolled  her 
eyes  upward,  as  though  some  invisible  force  were 
stretching  her  face;  but  I  had  no  need  of  her 
eloquence.  Fortunately,  I  felt  vicious,  and  my 
partner  did  not  inspire  me  with  timidity.  I  set 
to  criticising  everything  and  everybody  in  tlie 
world,  laying  special  stress  on  whipper-snappers 
from  the  capital,  and  Petersburg  fo])s,  and 
waxed  so  angry,  at  last,  that  my  lady  gradually 
ceased  to  smile,  and  instead  of  rolling  her  eyes 
upward,  she  suddenly  began— witli  amazement. 

5.5 


THE  DIARY  OF 

it  must  have  been  —  to  look  eross-eved,  and  in 
such  a  queer  way,  to  boot,  as  tliough  she  had  per- 
ceived, for  the  first  time,  that  she  had  a  nose 
on  her  face;  and  my  next  neighbour,  one  of  those 
Hons  of  ^vhom  1  have  spoken  above,  more  than 
once  scanned  me  with  a  glance,  even  turned  to 
me  ^\ith  the  expression  of  an  actor  on  the  stage 
who  has  waked  up  in  an  unknown  land,  as  much 
as  to  sav :  "  xVrt  thou  still  at  it  i  "  However,  while 
I  sang  like  a  nightingale,  as  the  saying  is,  I  still 
continued  to  watch  the  Prince  and  Liza.  Thev 
Avere  constantly  invited ;  but  I  suffered  less  when 
both  of  them  were  dancing;  and  eyen  when  they 
were  sitting  side  by  side  and  chatting  with  each 
other,  and  smiling  with  that  gentle  smile  which 
refuses  to  leave  the  face  of  happy  lovers, — even 
then  I  was  not  so  greatly  ])ained;  but  when  Liza 
was  fluttering  through  the  hall  with  some  gallant 
dandy,  and  the  Prince,  with  her  blue  gauze  scarf 
on  his  knees,  thoughtfully  followed  her  with  his 
eyes,  as  though  admiring  his  conquest,  —  then, 
oh,  then  I  experienced  unbearable  tortures,  and 
in  my  vexation  I  emitted  such  malicious  remarks, 
that  the  pui)ils  of  my  partner's  eyes  reclined  com- 
pletely from  both  sides,  on  her  nose! 

In  the  meantime,  the  mazurka  was  drawing  to 
a  close.  .  .  .  They  began  to  execute  the  figure 
known  as  "  la  confidente."  In  this  figure  the 
lady  seats  herself  in  the  centre  of  the  circle, 
chooses    another    lady    for    her    confidante    aiid 

56 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

whispers  in  her  ear  the  name  of  the  gentleman 
with  wlioni  she  wishes  to  dance;  the  cavaher  leads 
up  to  her  the  'dancers,  one  by  one,  and  the  con- 
fidante refuses  them  until,  at  last,  the  happy 
man  who  has  already  been  designated  makes  his 
appearance.  Liza  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  circle, 
and  chose  the  daughter  of  the  hostess,  one  of 
those  young  girls  of  whom  it  is  said  that  they  are 
"  God  bless  them."  ^  The  Prince  began  to  search 
for  the  chosen  man.  In  vain  did  he  present  about 
half  a  score  of  young  men  (the  hostess'  daughter 
refused  them  all,  with  a  pleasant  smile),  and,  at 
last,  had  recourse  to  me.  Something  unusual 
took  place  in  me  at  that  moment:  I  seemed  to 
wink  with  nw  whole  body,  and  tried  to  decline; 
nevertheless,  I  rose  and  went.  The  Prince  con- 
ducted me  to  Liza.  .  .  .  She  did  not  even  glance 
at  me;  the  hostess'  daughter  shook  her  head  in 
negation,  the  Prince  turned  toward  me,  and, 
prompted  probably  by  the  goose-like  expression 
of  my  face,  made  me  a  profound  bow.  This 
mocking  reverence,  this  refusal,  presented  to  me 
by  my  triumphant  rival,  his  negligent  smile, 
Liza's  indifferent  inattention, — all  this  provoked 
an  explosion  on  my  part.  I  stepped  up  to  the 
Prince  and  whispered  in  a  frenzied  rage:  "  I 
think  you  are  permitting  yourself  to  jeer  at  me?  " 
The  Prince  stared  at  me  with  scornful  sur- 
prise, again  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  with  the  air 

^  Utterly  insignificant.  — Translator. 

57 


THE  DIAHV   OF 

of  leading  me  hack  to  my  >.eat,  rei3Hed  coldly: 
"I?" 

"Yes,  you,  you!" — I  went  on  in  a  whisper, 
oheying  him,  nevertheless;  that  is  to  say,  follow- 
ing: him  to  mv  seat;  —  "  vou!  But  1  do  not  intend 
to  allow  any  frivolous  Petershurg  upstart  .  .   ." 

The  Prince  smiled  calmly,  almost  jDatronis- 
ingly,  gripped  my  hand  hard,  whispered:  "  I 
understand  you :  hut  this  is  not  tlie  proper  place ; 
we  will  talk  it  over,"  turned  away  from  me, 
approached  Bizmyonkoff  and  led  him  to  Liza. 
The  pale  little  petty  official  proved  to  he  the 
chosen  cavalier.     Liza  rose  to  meet  him. 

As  I  sat  beside  my  partner  with  the  melancholy 
fly  on  her  head,  I  felt  myself  almost  a  hero.  ]My 
heart  thumped  violently  within  me,  my  bosom 
swelled  nobly  under  my  starched  shirt-front,  my 
breath  came  fast  and  deep— and  all  of  a  sudden, 
I  stared  at  the  adjacent  lion  in  so  magnificent 
a  manner,  that  he  involuntarily  wiggled  the  leg 
which  was  turned  toward  me.  Having  rid  my- 
self of  this  man,  I  ran  mv  eves  over  the  circle 
of  dancers.  ...  It  seemed  to  me  that  two  or 
three  gentlemen  were  gazing  at  me  not  without 
amazement;  but,  on  the  whole,  my  conversation 
with  the  Prince  had  not  been  noticed.  .  .  .  My 
rival  was  ah*eady  seated  on  his  chair,  perfectly 
composed,  and  with  liis  former  smile  on  his  face. 
Bizmyonkoff  led  IJza  to  her  place.  She  gave 
him  a  friendlv  nod  and  immediatelv  turned  to 

>  • 

58 


A   SUPEKFLUOUS   MAN 

the  Prince,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  a  certain 
anxiety;  but  he  laughed  in  response,  waved  his 
hand  gracefully,  and  must  have  said  sometliing 
very  agreeable  to  her,  for  she  flushed  all  over 
with  pleasure,  dropped  her  eyes,  and  then  riveted 
them  on  him  once  more  with  affectionate  re- 
proach. 

The  heroic  frame  of  mind  which  had  suddenly 
developed  in  me  did  not  disappear  until  the  end 
of  the  mazurka;  but  I  made  no  more  jests,  and 
did  not  criticise,  and  merely  cast  a  severe  and 
gloomy  glance  from  time  to  time  at  my  lady, 
who  was,  evidently,  beginning  to  be  afraid  of 
me,  and  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  complete  stam- 
mering and  winked  incessantly,  when  I  led  her 
to  the  natural  stronghold  of  her  mother,  a  very 
fat  woman  with  a  red  head-dress.  Having 
handed  over  the  frightened  young  girl  as  be- 
hooved me,  I  walked  off  to  the  window,  clasped 
my  hands,  and  waited  to  see  what  would 
happen.  I  waited  a  good  while.  The  Prince  was 
constantly  surrounded  by  the  host,  —  precisely 
that,  surrounded,  as  England  is  surrounded  by 
the  sea, — not  to  mention  the  other  members  of  the 
county  Marshal  of  the  Nobility's  family,  and 
the  other  guests;  and,  moreover,  he  could  not, 
without  arousing  universal  surprise,  approach 
such  an  insignificant  man  as  I,  and  enter  into 
conversation  with  him.  This  insignificance  of 
mine,  I  remember,  was  even  a  source  of  delight 

59 


THE  DIARY  OF 

to  me  tlien.  ''Fiddlesticks!"  1  thought,  as  I 
watched  him  turning  courteously  now  to  one,  now 
to  another  respected  })ersonage  who  sought  the 
honour  of  heing  noticed  hy  him,  if  only  for  "  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,''  as  the  poets  say: — "  Fiddle- 
sticks, my  dear  fellow !  .  .  .  .  Thou  wilt  come  to 
me  hy  and  by— for  I  have  insulted  thee." 

At  last  the  Prince,  having  cleverly  got  rid  of 
the  crowd  of  his  adorers,  strode  past  me,  darted 
a  glance,  not  exactly  at  the  window,  nor  yet 
exactly  at  my  hair,  was  on  the  point  of  turning 
away,  and  suddenly  came  to  a  halt,  as  though 
he  had  just  remembered  something. 

"  Akh,  yes!" — he  said,  addressing  me  with  a 
smile;  — "  bv  the  way,  I  have  a  little  matter  of 
business  with  you." 

Two  landed  proprietors,  the  most  persistent 
of  all,  who  were  obstinateh'  following  up  the 
Prince,  ])robably  thouglit  that  the  "  little  matter 
of  business  "  was  connected  with  the  service,  and 
respectfully  retreated.  The  Prince  ])ut  his  arm 
in  mine,  and  led  me  to  one  side.  My  heart 
thimiped  in  my  breast. 

"  You,"  —  he  began,  drawling  out  the  word 
yoiij  and  staring  at  my  chin  with  a  contemptu- 
ous expression  which,  strange  to  say,  was  infi- 
nitely becoming  to  his  fresh,  handsome  face, — 
"  you  said  something  insolent  to  me,  I  believe." 

"  I  said  what  I  thought,"— I  retorted,  raising 
my  voice. 

60 


A   SUPERFTJ^OTTS   MAN 

li  .  .  .  .  spejik  more  cjuictl},"  — lie  re- 
marked:—"  well-bred  men  do  not  shout.  Per- 
haps you  would  like  to  fi^ht  with  me?  " 

"  That  is  your  affair," — I  replied,  drawing 
myself  up. 

"  I  shall  be  compelled  to  call  you  out,"— he 
said  carelessly,  — "  if  you  do  not  withdraw  your 
expressions.  ..." 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  withdrawing  any- 
thing,"—  I  retorted  proudly. 

"  Really?  "—he  remarked,  not  without  a  sneer- 
ing smile.  —  "  In  that  case,"— he  went  on,  after  a 
brief  ])ause, — "  I  shall  have  the  honour  to  send 
my  second  to  you  to-morrow." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  — I  said  in  the  most  indiffer- 
ent tone  I  could  muster. 

The  Prince  bowed  slighth\ 

"  I  cannot  forbid  you  to  think  me  a  frivolous 
man," — he  added,  arrogantly  narrowing  his  eyes; 
— "  but  it  is  impossible  that  the  Princes  X*** 
should  be  upstarts.  Farew^ell  for  the  present, 
Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  Shtukaturin." 

He  quickly  turned  his  back  on  me,  and  again 
ajjproached  his  host,  who  had  ah-eady  begun  to 
grow  agitated. 

"Mr.  Shtukaturin"!  ....  My  name  is 
Tchulkaturin.  ...  I  coidd  find  no  reply  to  make 
to  this  last  insult  of  his,  and  only  stared  after  him 
in  a  violent  rage.  — "  Farewell  until  to-morrow," 
I  whispered,  setting  my  teeth,  and  immediately 

61 


TIIK   DIAHV  OF 

liimted  lip  an  officer  of  my  acquaintance.  Captain 
Koloberdyaeff  of  the  uhlans,  a  desperate  ca- 
rouser  and  a  splendid  fellow,  narrated  to  him  in 
a  few  words  my  quarrel  with  tlie  Prince,  and 
asked  him  to  he  my  second.  He,  of  course,  im- 
mediately consented,  and  I  wended  mv  way 
homeward. 

I  could  not  get  to  sleep  all  night  — from  agi- 
tation, not  from  pusillanimity.  I  am  no  cow- 
ard. I  eyen  thought  yery  little  indeed  about  the 
impending  possibility  of  losing  my  life,  that  high- 
est good  on  earth,  according  to  the  Germans. 
I  thought  of  Liza  only,  of  my  dead  hopes,  of 
what  I  ought  to  do.  "  Ought  I  to  tr}^  to  kill  the 
Prince?  "  I  asked  myself,  and,  of  course,  wanted 
to  kill  him,  —  not  out  of  yengeance,  but  out  of  a 
desire  for  Liza's  good.  "  But  she  will  not  sur- 
yiye  that  blow%"  I  went  on.  "  No,  it  will  be  better 
to  let  him  kill  me!  " 

I  confess  that  it  was  also  pleasant  to  me  to 
think  that  I,  an  obscure  man  from  the  country, 
had  forced  so  important  a  personage  to  fight  a 
duel  with  me. 

Dawn  found  me  engrossed  in  these  cogita- 
tions; and  later  in  the  morning,  Koloberdyaeff 
])resented  himself. 

"  Well,"— he  asked  me,  noisily  entering  my 
bedroom,  —  "and  where  's  the  Prince's  second?" 

"  Why,  good  gracious!  "  —  I  replied  with  yexa- 
tion,  — "  it  's    only    seyen    o'clock    in    the    morn- 

62 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MxVN 

iiig  now;  I  ])rcsiime  tlie  Prince  is  still  fast 
asleep." 

"  In  that  case,"  — retiirne<l  the  irrepressible 
cavalry-captain,  — "  order  them  to  give  me  some 
tea.  I  have  a  headache  from  last  night's  doings. 
.  .  .  .  1  have  n't  even  been  undressed.  How- 
ever,"—he  added  with  a  yawn,  — "  I  rarelv  do 
undress  anyway." 

Tea  was  served  to  him.  He  drank  six  glasses 
with  rum,  smoked  four  pipes,  told  me  that  on  the 
preceding  day  he  had  bought  for  a  song  a  horse 
which  the  coachmen  had  given  up  as  a  bad  job, 
and  intended  to  break  it  in  by  tying  up  one  of 
its  forelegs,  —  and  fell  asleep,  without  undress- 
ing, on  the  couch,  with  his  pipe  still  in  his  mouth. 
I  rose,  and  put  my  papers  in  order.  One  note 
of  invitation  from  Liza,  the  only  note  I  had  re- 
ceived from  her,  I  was  on  the  point  of  putting 
in  my  breast,  hut  changed  my  mind,  and  tossed 
it  into  a  box.  Koloberdyaeff  was  snoring  faintly, 
Avith  his  head  hanging  doAvn  from  the  leather 
cushions.  ...  I  remember  that  I  surveyed  for  a 
long  time  his  dishevelled,  dashing,  care-free  and 
kindly  face.  At  ten  o'clock  my  servant  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  "Rizmyonkoff .  The  Prince 
had  selected  him  for  his  second. 

Together  we  roused  the  soundly-sleeping  cap- 
tain. He  rose,  stared  at  us  with  eyes  owlishly 
stupid  from  sleep,  and  in  a  hoarse  voice  asked 
for  vodka;  — he  recovered  himself,  and  after  hav- 

03 


THE  DIARY  OF 

ing  exclianged  salutes  witli  BizniyonkofF,  went 
out  with  him  into  the  next  room  for  eonsultation. 
The  conference  of  tlie  seconds  did  not  last  long. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  both  came  to  me 
in  my  bedroom:  Koloberdyaeff  announced  to  me 
that  "  we  shall  fight  to-day,  at  three  o'clock,  with 
])istols/*  I  silently  bowed  mv  head,  in  token  of 
assent.  Bizmyonkoif  immediately  took  leave  of 
us,  and  drove  away.  Pie  ^^•as  somewhat  ])ale  and 
inwardly  agitated,  like  a  man  A\ho  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  that  sort  of  performance,  but  was  very 
polite  and  cold.  I  seemed,  somehow,  to  feel 
ashamed  in  his  presence,  and  I  did  not  dare  to 
look  him  in  the  eye. 

Koloberdyaeff  began  \o  talk  about  his  horse 
again.  This  conversation  was  very  much  to  my 
taste.  1  was  afraid  lie  might  mention  Liza.  But 
my  good  captain  was  no  scandal-monger,  and, 
more  than  that,  he  despised  all  .women,  calling 
them,  God  knows  why,  "  salad."  At  two  o'clock 
we  lunched,  and  at  three  were  already  on  the  field 
of  action  —  in  that  same  birch-grove  where  I  had 
once  strolled  with  Liza,  a  couple  of  paces  from 
that  cHfF. 

We  were  the  first  to  arrive.  But  the  Prince 
and  BizniyonkofF  did  not  make  us  wait  long  for 
them.  The  Prince  was,  without  exaggeration, 
as  fresh  as  a  rose;  his  bi-own  eyes  gazed  out  with 
extreme  affability  from  beneath  the  visor  of  his 
military  cap.     He  was  smoking  a  straw  cigar, 

6-l< 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   ^NIAN 

and  on  catcliing  siglit  of*  Koloberdyaeff  lie  sliook 
liaiuls  witli  liim  in  a  cordial  manner.  He  even 
bowed  very  eharniinti'lv  to  me.  1.  on  the  eon- 
trary,  felt  conscious  that  I  was  pale,  and  my 
hands,  to  my  intense  vexation,  were  trembling 
slightly;  .  .  .  my  throat  was  dry.  .  .  Never,  np 
to  that  time,  had  I  fought  a  duel.  "  O  God!  " 
I  thought;  "if  only  that  sneering  gentleman 
does  not  take  mv  agitation  for  timidity!  "  I  in- 
wardly  consigned  my  nerves  to  all  the  fiends ;  but 
on  glancing,  at  last,  straight  at  the  Prince's 
face,  and  catching  on  his  lips  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible smile,  1  suddenly  became  inflated  with 
wrath,  and  immediately  recovered  my  equanim- 
ity. 

In  the  meantime,  our  seconds  had  arranged 
the  barrier,  had  paced  off  the  distance,  and 
loaded  the  pistols.  Koloberdyaeff  did  most  of 
the  active  part;  Rizmyonkoff  chiefly  watched 
him.  It  was  a  magnificent  day  —  quite  equal  to 
the  day  of  the  never-to-be-forgotten  stroll.  The 
dense  azure  of  the  sky  again  peeped  through  tlie 
gilded  green  of  the  leaves.  Their  rustling- 
seemed  to  excite  me.  The  Prince  continued  to 
smoke  his  cigar,  as  he  leaned  his  shoulder  against 
the  trunk  of  a  linden.  ... 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  take  your  places,  gentlemen  ; 
all  is  ready,"  — said  Koloberdyaeff  at  last,  hand- 
ing us  the  pistols. 

The  Prince  retreated  a  few  paces,  halted,  and 

do 


THE  DIARY  OF 

turning  his  head  back  over  his  shoulder,  asked 
me:  "  And  do  you  still  refuse  to  withdraw  your 
words?  "...  I  tried  to  answer  him;  but  my  voice 
failed  me,  and  I  contented  myself  with  a  dis- 
dainful motion  of  the  hand.  The  Prince  laughed 
again,  and  took  his  place.  AVe  began  to  approach 
each  other.  I  raised  my  pistol,  and  was  on' the 
point  of  taking  aim  at  the  breast  of  my  enemy, — 
at  that  moment  he  reallv  was  my  enemy, — but 
suddenly  elevated  the  barrel,  as  though  some  one 
had  jogged  my  elbow,  and  fired.  The  Prince 
staggered,  raised  his  left  hand  to  his  left  temple 
—  a  thin  stream  of  blood  trickled  down  his  cheek 
from  beneath  his  white  wash-leather  glove.  Biz- 
myonkofF  flew  to  him. 

"  It  is  nothing," — he  said,  taking  off  his  cap, 
which  had  been  perforated;  — "  if  it  did  not  enter 
my  head,  that  means  it  is  only  a  scratch." 

He  calmly  pidled  a  batiste  handkerchief  from 
his  pocket,  and  laid  it  on  his  curls,  which  were  wet 
with  blood.  1  looked  at  him  as  though  petrified, 
and  did  not  stir  from  the  spot. 

"  Please  go  to  the  barrier!  "  —  remarked  Kolo- 
berdyaeff  to  me  with  severity. 

I  obeyed. 

"  Shall  the  duel  go  on?  "  —  he  added,  address- 
ing Bi'/myonkoff. 

Bizmyonkoff  made  him  no  reply;  but  the 
Prince,  without  removing  the  handkerchief  from 
the  wound,   nor  even  giving  himself  the  satis- 

66 


A   SUPKHFLT^OUS   MAN 

faction  of  teasing  nie  at  the  barrier,  replied  witli 
a  smile:  "  The  duel  is  ended,"  and  fired  into  tlie 
air.  1  nearly  \vej3t  with  vexation  and  rage.  That 
man,  by  his  magnanimity,  had  definitively  tram- 
pled me  in  the  mud,  had  cut  my  throat.  1  wanted 
to  protest,  I  wanted  to  demand  that  he  should 
fire  at  me;  but  he  stepped  up  to  me,  and  offering 
me  his  hand,  "  Everything  is  forgotten  between 
us,  is  it  not?  "  —  he  said,  in  a  cordial  voice. 

I  cast  a  glance  at  his  pale  face,  at  that  blood- 
stained handkerchief,  and  utterly  losing  my  head, 
blushing  Avith  shame,  and  annihilated,  I  pressed 
his  hand.  .  . 

"  Gentlemen!  " — he  added,  addressing  the  sec- 
onds:— "  I  hope  that  all  this  will  remain  a 
secret?  " 

"Of  course!"  —  exclaimed  KoloberdyaefF, — 
"  but.  Prince,  allow  me.  ..." 

And  he  himself  bound  up  his  head. 

The  Prince,  as  he  departed,  bowled  to  me  once 
more;  but  BizmyonkofF  did  not  even  bestow  a 
glance  on  me.  Slain,  —  morally  slain,  —  1  returned 
home  with  KoloberdyaefF. 

"  But  what  ails  you?  "  —  the  captain  asked  me. 
"  Calm  yourself;  the  wound  is  not  dangerous. 
He  can  dance  to-morrow,  if  lie  likes.  Or  are 
vou  sorry  that  vou  did  not  kill  him?    In  that  case, 

•  •  • 

you  're  wrong;  he  's  a  splendid  fellow." 

"  Why  did  he  spare  me?  !  "— I  muttered  at 
last. 

67 


THE  DTAKY  OF 

'  Olio!  so  that 's  it!  "—calmly  retorted  tlie  cap- 
tain. .  .  "  Okh.  these  romancers  will  he  the 
death  of  me!  " 

I  pc^sitively  i-efuse  to  descrihe  my  tortures  in 
the  course  of  the  evening  which  followed  this  un- 
lucky duel.  My  pride  suffered  inexpressihly. 
It  was  not  my  conscience  which  tormented  me; 
the  consciousness  of  my  stupidity  annihilated  me. 
"  I  mvself  have  dealt  mvself  the  last,  the  final 
hlow!  "  I  kept  repeating  as  I  paced  my  room 
with  long  strides.  ..."  The  Prince  wounded  b}^ 
me  and  forgiving  me  ...  .  yes,  Liza  is  his  now. 
Xothing  can  save  her  now,  nor  hold  her  back 
on  the  brink  of  perdition."  I  was  very  well  aware 
that  oin*  duel  could  not  remain  a  secret,  in  spite 
of  the  Prince's  words;  in  any  case,  it  could  not 
remain  a  secret  to  Liza.  "  The  Prince  is  not  so 
stupid"  — I  whispered  in  a  frenzy  — "  as  not  to 
take  advantage  of  it."  .  .  .  And,  nevertheless,  I 
was  mistaken:  the  whole  town  heard  about  the 
duel  and  its  actual  cause,  —  on  the  very  next  day, 
of  course;  but  it  was  not  the  Prince  who  had 
babbled — on  the  contrary;  when  he  had  presented 
himself  to  Liza  with  a  bandaged  head  and  an 
excuse  which  had  been  pre])ared  in  advance,  she 
already  knew  everything.  .  .  Wliether  Bizmyon- 
koff  had  betrayed  me.  or  wlietlier  the  news  had 
reached  her  l)y  other  roads.  I  cannot  say.  And, 
aftei-  all.  is  it  ])ossible  to  conceal  anytliing  in  a 
small  town?    You  can  imagine  how  Liza  took  it. 

08 


A   STTPKIUH OITS   ]MAN 

how  the  whole  Ozlioyin  family  took  it!  As  for 
me,  I  suddenly  became  the  object  of  universal 
indignation,  of  loathing,  a  monster,  a  crazily 
jealous  man,  and  a  cannibal.  "Sly  few  acHjuain- 
tances  renounced  me,  as  the}'^  would  have  re- 
nounced a  leper.  The  town  authorities  a})})ealed 
to  the  Prince  with  a  i)ro])osition  to  chastise  me 
in  a  stern  and  exemplary  manner;  only  the  per- 
sistent and  importunate  entreaties  of  the  Prince 
himself  warded  off  the  calamity  which  menaced 
my  head.  This  man  was  fated  to  annihilate  me 
in  every  way.  By  his  magnanimity  he  had  shut 
me  up  as  though  with  my  coffin-lid.  It  is  need- 
less to  say  that  the  Ozhogins'  house  was  imme- 
diately closed  to  me.  Kirila  IMatvyeevitch  even 
returned  to  me  a  plain  pencil,  which  I  had  left 
at  his  residence.  In  reality,  he  was  precisely 
the  last  man  who  should  have  been  incensed  with 
me.  INIy  "  crazy  "  jealousy,  as  thej^  called  it  in 
the  town,  had  defined,  elucidated,  so  to  S2:)eak.  the 
relations  between  Liza  and  the  Prince.  The  old 
Ozhogins  themselves  and  the  other  residents  be- 
gan to  look  upon  him  almost  in  the  light  of  a  be- 
trothed husband.  In  reality,  that  could  not  have 
been  quite  agreeable  to  him;  but  he  liked  Liza 
very  much ;  and  moreover,  at  that  time  he  had  not, 
as  yet,  attained  his  object.  .  .  .  With  all  the  tact 
of  a  clever  man  of  the  world,  he  accommodated 
himself  to  his  new  ])osition.  immediately  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  his  new  part,  as  the  saying  is.  .  . 

69 


THE  DIARY  OF 

But  1!  ...  1  then  gave  up  in  despair,  so  far 
as  1  myself  was  concerned,  and  so  far  as  my 
future  was  concerned.  When  sufferings  reach 
sucli  a  })itch  that  they  make  our  whole  inward 
being  crack  and  creak  like  an  overloaded  cart, 
thev  ought  to  cease  being  ridiculous.  .  .  .  But 
no!  laughter  not  only  accompanies  tears  to  the 
end,  to  exhaustion,  to  the  })oint  where  it  is  im- 
possible to  shed  any  more  of  them,  — not  at  all! 
it  still  rings  and  resounds  at  a  point  where  the 
tongue  grows  dumb  and  lamentation  itself  dies 
away.  .  .  .  And  then,  in  the  first  place,  as  I  have 
no  intention  of  appearing  absurd  even  to  myself, 
and  in  the  second  place,  as  I  am  frightfully  tired, 
1  shall  defer  the  continuation  and,  God  willing, 
the  conclusion  of  mv  storv  until  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

March  29.    A  light  frost ;  last  night 
there  was  a  thaw. 

Yesterday  I  was  unable  to  go  on  with  my  diary; 
like  Poprishshtchin,  I  lay  most  of  the  time  in 
bed,  and  chatted  with  Terentievna.  There  's  a 
woman  for  you!  Sixty  years  ago  she  lost  her 
first  betrothed  from  the  plague,  she  has  outlived 
all  her  children,  she  herself  is  unpardonablj^  old, 
she  drinks  tea  to  her  heart's  content,  she  is  well- 
fed,  warmly  clad;  but  what  do  you  think  she 
talked  to  me  about  yesterday?  I  had  ordered 
that  the  ca]H'  of  an  old  li\  cry-coat  should  be 
given  to  another  utterly  denuded  old  woman  for 

70 


A   SUPERFTJTOTTS   ^FAN 

a  waistcoat  (she  wears  a  breast-piece  in  the  sha])e 
of  a  waistcoat).  .  .  .  'I'he  cape  was  ])retty  tlior- 
oughly  eaten  by  moths,  so  why  should  not  she 
have  it?  "Well,  it  strikes  me  that  1  'm  your 
nurse.  .  .  .  O-okh,  my  dear  little  father,  't  is  a  sin 
for  you  to  do  that.  .  .  .  And  have  n't  I  been 
tendint)-  you?  "  .  .  .  .  and  so  forth.  The  mer- 
ciless  old  woman  fairly  wore  me  out  with 
her  reproaches.  .  .  .  But  let  us  return  to  the 
story. 

So,  then,  I  suffered  like  a  dog  which  has  had 
the  hind  part  of  its  body  run  over  by  a  wheel. 
Only  then,  —  only  after  my  expulsion  from  the 
Ozhogins'  house,— did  I  become  definitiveh" 
aware  how  much  pleasure  a  man  may  derive  from 
the  contemplation  of  his  own  unhappiness.  Oh, 
men !  ye  are,  in  reality,  a  pitiful  race !  .  .  .  Well, 
but  that  is  in  the  nature  of  a  philosophical  remark. 
...  I  passed  my  days  in  utter  solitude,  and  only 
in  the  most  roundabout  and  even  base  ways  was  I 
able  to  find  out  what  was  going  on  in  the  Ozho- 
gin  family,  what  the  Prince  was  doing.  INIy 
servant  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with  the  great- 
aunt  of  the  wife  of  his  coachman.  This  acquain- 
tance afforded  me  some  alleviation,  and  my 
servant  speedily  was  able,  from  my  hints  and 
gifts,  to  divine  what  it  behooved  him  to  talk  about 
with  his  master,  when  he  was  pulling  off  the  lat- 
ter's  boots  at  night.  Sometimes  I  chanced  to  meet 
in  the  street  some  member  of  the  Ozhogin  family, 

71 


THE  DIARY  OF 

Bizmyonkoff,  or  the  Prince.  .  .  .  With  the 
Prince  and  Bizmyonkoff  I  exchanged  bows,  but 
I  (h(l  not  enter  into  conversation.  I  saw  Liza 
thrice  in  all:  once  with  her  mamma,  in  a  milliner's 
shop,  once  in  an  open  calash  with  her  father, 
her  mother,  and  the  Prince;  once  in  church. 
Of  course,  I  did  not  venture  to  approach  her,  and 
only  gazed  at  her  from  afar.  In  the  shop  she  was 
anxious  but  cheerful.  .  .  .  She  was  ordering 
something  for  herself,  and  busily  trying  on  rib- 
bons. Her  mother  was  gazing  at  her,  with  hands 
clasped  on  her  stomach,  her  nose  elevated,  and 
indulging  in  that  stupid  and  affectionate  smile 
which  is  permissible  only  to  fond  mothers.  Liza 
was  in  the  calash  with  the  Prince.  ...  I  shall 
never  forget  that  meeting!  The  old  Ozhogins 
were  sitting  on  the  back  seat  of  the  calash,  the 
Prince  and  Liza  in  front.  She  was  paler  than 
usual;  two  pink  streaks  were  barely  discernible 
on  her  cheeks.  She  was  half-turned  toward  the 
Prince;  supporting  herself  on  her  outstretched 
right  hand  (she  w^as  holding  her  parasol  in  her 
left) ,  and  wearily  bending  her  head,  she  was 
gazing  straight  into  his  face  with  her  expressive 
eyes.  At  that  moment  she  was  surrendering  her- 
self utterly  to  him,  trusting  him  irrevocably.  I 
did  not  have  a  chance  to  get  a  good  look  at 
his  face,  — the  calash  dashed  past  too  swiftly,— 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  also  was  deeply 
moved. 

72 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   INIAN 

The  third  time  I  saw  her  was  in  church.  Not 
more  than  ten  days  had  elapsed  since  the  day 
when  I  had  encountered  her  in  the  calash  with 
the  Prince,  not  more  tlian  three  weeks  since  my 
duel.  The  business  on  account  of  which  the 
Prince  had  come  to  Q***  had  long  been  finished; 
but  he  still  deferred  his  departure;  he  reported 
in  Petersburg  that  he  was  ill.  In  the  city,  ])eople 
were  expecting  every  day  a  formal  proposal  on 
his  part  to  Kirila  Matvyeevitch.  I  myself  was 
only  waiting  for  this  last  blow,  in  order  to  retire 
forever.  The  town  of  O***  had  grown  loath- 
some to  me.  I  could  not  sit  still  at  home,  and  from 
morning  till  night  I  dragged  myself  about  the 
suburbs.  One  grey,  wet  day,  as  I  was  return- 
ing from  a  stroll  which  had  been  cut  short  by  the 
rain,  I  stepped  into  the  church.  The  evening 
service  M^as  only  just  beginning,  there  were  very 
few  people  present;  I  looked  about  me,  and  sud- 
denly, near  a  window,  I  descried  a  familiar  jjro- 
file.  At  first  I  did  not  recognise  it;  that  pale 
face,  that  extinct  glance,  those  sunken  cheeks — 
could  it  be  the  same  Liza  whom  I  had  seen  two 
weeks  before?  Enveloped  in  a  cloak,  with  no 
hat  on  her  head,  illuminated  from  one  side  by  a 
cold  ray  of  light,  which  fell  through  the  broad 
window  of  white  glass,  she  was  staring  immov- 
ably at  the  ikonostiisis,  and,  apparently,  making 
a  violent  effort  to  pray,  striving  to  escape  from 
some   sort   of   dejected    rigidity.      A    fat,    red- 

73 


THE  DIARY  OF 

checked  page  w  itli  yellow  eartridge-cases  on  his 
breast  ^  was  standing  behind  her,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  and  staring  with  sleepy 
surprise  at  his  mistress.  I  shuddered  all  over; 
I  started  to  go  to  her,  but  stopped  short.  A 
torturing  forboding  gripped  my  breast.  Liza 
never  stirred  until  the  very  end  of  vespers.  All 
the  congregation  departed,  a  chanter  began  to 
sweep  out  the  church,  and  still  she  did  not  stir 
from  her  place.  The  page  approached  her,  and 
touched  her  gown ;  she  glanced  round,  passed  her 
hand  over  her  face,  and  went  away.  I  escorted 
her,  at  a  distance,  to  her  house,  then  returned 
home. 

"  She  is  ruined!  "  I  exclaimed,  as  I  entered  my 
room. 

Being  a  man,  I  do  not  know  to  this  day  what 
was  the  nature  of  my  sensations  then.  I  remem- 
ber that,  folding  my  arms,  I  flung  myself  on  the 
divan,  and  riveted  mv  eves  on  the  floor;  but  I 
did  not  know  why,  only,  in  the  midst  of  my  grief, 
I  seemed  to  l)e  pleased  at  something.  ...  I 
would  not  have  admitted  that  on  any  account, 
if  I  were  not  writing  for  myself.  ...  I  really 
had  been  tortured  by  painful,  terrible  forebod- 
ings ....  and.  who  knows,  ])erhaps  I  should 
have  been  disconcerted  if  they  had  not  been  ful- 
fllled.  "  Such  is  the  human  heart !  "  some  mid- 
dle-aged Russian  teacher  would  exclaim  at  this 

'  The  page  is  called  a  kazAk,  and  dressed  accordingly.  —Translator 

74 


A   SUPEKI  LI  OUS   MAN 

point,  ill  an  expressive  voice,  raising  on  high  his 
thick  forefinger  adorned  with  a  carnehan  ring. 
15iit  ^^•llat  care  we  for  the  opinion  of  a  Russian 
teacher  with  an  expressive  voice,  and  a  carnehan 
ring  on  his  finger? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  my  forebodings  had  turned 
out  to  be  correct.  The  news  suddenly  spread 
through  the  town  tliat  the  Prince  had  taken  his 
departure,  in  consequence,  nominally,  of  an  order 
from  Petersburg ;  that  he  had  gone  away  without 
having  made  any  proposal  of  marriage  either  to 
Kirila  IMatvyeevitch  or  to  his  spouse,  and  that 
Liza  would  continue  to  mourn  his  perfidy  to  the 
end  of  her  days.  The  Prince's  departure  had 
been  entirely  unexpected,  because,  as  late  as  the 
evening  before,  his  coachman,  according  to  the  as- 
sertions of  my  servant,  had  not  in  the  least  sus- 
pected his  master's  intention.  This  news  threw 
me  into  a  fever.  I  immediately  dressed  myself, 
was  on  the  point  of  running  to  the  Ozhogins'; 
but  after  thinking  the  matter  over,  I  concluded 
that  it  would  be  decorous  to  wait  until  the  follow- 
ing day.  However,  1  lost  nothing  by  remaining 
at  home.  That  evening  there  ran  in  to  see  me 
a  certain  Pandopipopulo,  a  Greek  on  his  travels, 
who  had  accidentally  got  stranded  in  O***,  a 
gossip  of  the  first  magnitude,  who,  more  than 
any  one  else,  had  seethed  with  indignation  against 
me  for  my  duel  with  the  Prince.  He  did  not 
even  give  my  servant  time  to  announce  him,  but 

75 


THE  DIARY  OF 

fairly  forced  his  way  into  my  room,  shook  me 
vii»'oroiislv  by  the  liaiul,  made  a  thousand  excuses 
for  liis  conduct,  called  me  a  model  of  magnanim- 
ity and  fearlessness,  depicted  the  Prince  in  the 
blackest  colours,  did  not  spare  the  old  Ozhogins, 
whom  Fate  had,  in  his  opinion,  justly  punished; 
he  gave  a  hit  at  Liza  also  in  passing,  and  ran  off, 
after  kissing  me  on  the  shoulder.  Among  other 
things,  I  learned  from  him  that  the  Prince,  en 
vrai  grand  seigneur,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure, 
liad  replied  coldly  to  a  delicate  hint  from  Kirila 
Matvyeevitch,  that  be  had  not  intended  to  deceive 
any  one  and  was  not  thinking  of  marrying;  had 
risen,  and  made  his  bow,  and  that  was  the  last 
they  had  seen  of  him.  .  .  . 

On  the  following  day,  I  betook  myself  to  the 
Ozhogins'.  The  blear-eyed  footman,  at  my  ap- 
pearance, s])rang  from  the  bench  in  the  ante- 
room with  lightning-like  swiftness;  I  ordered 
him  to  announce  me.  The  lackey  hastened  off, 
and  immediately  returned:  "Please  enter,"  said 
he;  "  I  am  ordered  to  invite  you  in."  I  entered 
Kirila  Matvyeevitch's  study.  .  .  .  Until  to-mor- 
row. 

INIarcb  30.    A  frost. 
So,  then,  I  entered  Kirila  jMatvyeevitch's  study. 
I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  any  one  who  could 
have  sho^^'n  me  my  own  face  at  the  moment  when 
that   worthy   official,   hastily   wrap])ing  his   Bu- 

70 


A   SUIM^RI  LI OUS   :MAN 

khara  dressing-gown  round  liini,  ste])ped  forward 
to  meet  nie  with  outstrctclicd  hands.  I  must 
have  fairly  racHated  an  atmosjjhere  of  modest 
triumph,  patronising  syni])athy,  and  hmitless 
magnanimity.  ...  1  felt  that  I  was  something 
in  the  nature  of  Scipio  Africanus.  OzluSgin  was 
visibly  embarrassed  and  dejn'cssed,  avoided  my 
eve,  and  shifted  from  foot  to  foot  where  he  stood. 
1  also  noticed  that  he  talked  in  an  unnaturally- 
loud  manner,  and  altogether  expressed  himself 
very  indefinitely;  —  indefinitely,  but  with  fervour, 
did  he  beg  my  pardon,  indefinitely  alluded  to  the 
departed  visitor,  added  a  few  general  and  in- 
definite remarks  about  the  deceitfulness  and  in- 
stability of  eartlily  blessings,  and  suddenl)',  be- 
coming conscious  of  a  tear  in  his  eye,  he  hastened 
to  take  a  pinch  of  snufF,  probably  with  the  ob- 
ject of  deluding  me  as  to  the  cause  which  was 
making  him  weep.  .  .  .  He  used  green  Russian 
snufF,  and  every  one  knows  that  that  plant 
makes  even  old  men  shed  tears,  athwart  which 
the  human  eye  peers  forth  dimly  and  senselessly 
for  the  space  of  several  minutes. 

As  a  matter  of  course  1  treated  the  old  man 
very  cautiously,  inquired  after  the  health  of  his 
wife  and  daughter,  and  at  once  turned  the  con- 
versation artfully  on  the  interesting  question  of 
rotation  of  cro])s.  1  was  dressed  as  usual;  but 
the  feeling  of  soft  decorum  and  gentle  conde- 
scension which  filled  my  breast,  afforded  me  a 

77 


THE  DIAKV  OF 

festive  and  fresh  sensation,  as  though  1  were 
wearing  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  white  neckcloth. 
One  thing  disturbed  me:  the  thought  of  meeting 
Liza  again.  ...  At  last  Ozhogin  himself  pro- 
posed to  conduct  me  to  his  wife.  That  good,  but 
stupid  woman,  on  beholding  me,  at  first  became 
frightfully  embarrassed;  but  her  brain  was  in- 
capable of  preserving  one  and  the  same  impres- 
sion for  long  together,  and  therefore  she  speedily 
recovered  her  equanimity.  At  last  I  saw  Liza. 
.  .  .  She  entered  the  room.  .  .  . 

I  had  expected  that  I  should  find  in  her  an 
abashed,  penitent  sinner,  and  had  already  in  ad- 
vance imparted  to  my  face  the  most  cordial  and 
encouraging  expression.  .  .  .  Wliy  should  I  lie? 
I  really  loved  her  and  thirsted  for  the  happiness 
of  forgiving  her,  of  i)utting  out  my  hand  to  her; 
but,  to  my  unspeakable  amazement,  in  reply  to 
my  significant  bow,  she  lauglied  coldly,  remarked 
carelessly:  "  Ah?  so  it  's  you?  "  and  immediately 
turned  away  from  me.  Her  laugh  appeared  to 
me  forced,  it  is  true,  and,  in  any  case,  was  ill- 
suited  to  her  dreadfully  emaciated  face.  .  .  . 
But,  nevertheless,  I  had  not  expected  such  a  re- 
ception. ...  I  stared  at  her  in  astonishment. 
.  .  .  What  a  change  had  taken  place  in  her!  Be- 
tween the  former  cliild  and  this  woman  there  was 
nothing  in  common.  She  seemed  to  have  grown 
taller,  to  have  drawn  herself  up  straigliter;  all  her 
features,  especially  her  lips,  seemed  to  have  ac- 

78 


A  SUPKK1I.UOITS   INIAX 

quired  a  more  defined  outline  ....  her  gaze 
had  become!  more  profound,  more  firm,  and  dark. 
I  sat  with  tlie  Ozhogins  until  dinner;  she  rose, 
left  the  room  and  i-eturned  to  it,  calmly  replied 
to  questions,  and  deliberately  took  no  heed  of  me. 
I  could  see  that  she  wished  to  make  me  feel  that  1 
was  not  worthy  even  of  her  anger,  altliougli  I 
had  come  near  killing  her  lover.  At  last  1  lost 
patience:  a  malicious  hint  broke  from  my  lips. 
.  .  .  She  shuddered,  darted  a  swift  glance  at 
me,  rose,  and,  walking  to  the  window,  said  in  a 
voice  which  trembled  slightly:  "You  can  saj^ 
anything  you  like,  but  you  must  know  that  I  love 
that  man  and  shall  always  love  him,  and  do  not 
consider  him  to  blame  toward  me  in  the  slightest 
decree,  on  the  contrary  .  .  .  ."  Her  voice  broke 
with  a  tinkle,  she  paused  ....  tried  to  control 
herself,  but  could  not,  a;nd  burst  into  tears  and 
left  the  room.  .  .  .  The  elder  Ozhogins  grew 
confused.  ...  I  shook  hands  with  both  of  them, 
sighed,  cast  a  glance  upward,  and  went  away. 

I  am  too  weak,  there  is  too  little  time  left  to  me, 
I  am  not  in  a  condition  to  describe  with  my 
former  minuteness  this  new  series  of  torturing 
meditations,  firm  intentions,  and  other  fruits  of 
the  so-called  inward  conflict,  which  started  up  in 
me  after  the  renewal  of  my  acquaintance  \\\\\\ 
the  Ozhogins.  I  did  not  doubt  that  I.iza  still 
loved  and  would  long  love  the  Prince  ....  but. 
being  a  man  tamed  now  by  circumstances  and 

79 


THE  DIARY  OF 

who  had .  resigned  himself  to  liis  fate,  I  did 
not  even  dream  of  her  love :  I  merely  desired  her 
friendship,  I  wanted  to  win  her  confidence,  her 
respect,  which,  according  to  the  assertions  of  ex- 
perienced persons,  is  regarded  as  the  most  trust- 
worthy foundation  for  happiness  in  marriage. 
....  Unhappily,  T  had  hist  sight  of  one  i-ather 
important  circumstance  — namely,  that  Liza  had 
hated  me  ever  since  the  day  of  the  duel.  I  learned 
this  too  late. 

I  began  to  frequent  the  Ozhogins'  house  as  of 
vore.     Kirila  ^Nlatvveevitch  was  more  cordial  to 
me  and  petted  me  more  than  ever.     I  even  have 
cause  to  think  that  at  the  time  he  would  have 
gladly  given  me  his  daughter,  although   I  was 
not  an  enviable  match:  public  opinion  condemned 
him  and  Liza,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  extolled 
me  to  the  skies.     Liza's  treatment  of  me  did  not 
change:  she  maintained  silence  most  of  the  time, 
obeyed  when  she  was  bidden  to  eat,  displayed 
no  outward  signs  of  grief,  but,  nevertheless,  slie 
wasted  away  like  a  candle.     I  nmst  do  iustice  to 
Kirila  Matvyeevitch:  he  spared  her  in  every  possi- 
ble way;  old  ^ladame  Ozhogin  merely  bristled  up 
as  she  looked  at  her  poor  child.     There  was  only 
one  man  whom  Liza  did  not  avoid,  although  she 
did  not  talk  much  to  him,  namely,  Bizmyonkoff. 
The    old    Ozhogins    treated    him    sternly,    even 
roughly;  they  couhl  not  pardon  him  for  having 
acted  as  second;  but  he  continued  to  come  to  their 

80 


A   SUPERFT.UOUS   MAN 

lioiise,  as  though  he  did  not  notice  their  disfavour. 
With  nie  he  was  very  cold,  and, — strange  to  say! 
—  I  felt  afraid  of  him,  as  it  were.  This  state  of 
things  lasted  for  ahont  a  fortnight.  At  last, 
after  a  sleepless  niglit,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
have  an  explanation  with  IJza,  to  lay  hare  my 
lieart  before  her;  to  tell  her  that,  notwithstanding 
the  past,  notwithstan(hng  all  sorts  of  rumours 
and  gossip,  I  should  regard  myself  as  too  hapi)y 
if  she  would  favour  me  with  her  hand,  would 
restore  to  me  her  trust.  I  really,  without  jesting, 
imagined  that  I  was  exliibiting,  as  the  compen- 
diums  of  literature  put  it,  an  unprecedented  ex- 
ample of  magnanimity,  and  that  she  would  give 
her  consent  out  of  sheer  amazement.  In  any 
case,  I  wanted  to  clear  up  the  situation  with  her, 
and  escape,  definitively,  from  my  state  of  un- 
certainty. 

Behind  the  Ozhogins'  house  lay  a  fairly  spa- 
cious garden,  terminating  in  a  linden  coppice, 
neglected  and  overgrown.  In  the  middle  of  this 
coppice  rose  an  old  arbour  in  the  Chinese  style; 
a  board  fence  separated  the  garden  from  a  blind- 
alley.  IJza  sometmies  strolled  for  hours  at  a 
time  alone  in  this  garden.  Kirila  iNIatvyeevitch 
knew  this  and  had  given  orders  that  she  \\'as  not 
to  be  disturbed,  and  kept  a  watch  over  her: 
"  Let  her  grief  wear  itself  out,"  he  said.  \Vhen 
she  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  house,  it  was  only 
necessary  to  ring  a  small  bell  on  the  porch  at 

81 


THE  DIARY  OF 

(linncr-time,  and  she  ininiediately  presented  her- 
self, with  the  same  ob(hn"ate  taeitninit}-  on  her 
Hps  and  in  lier  i^aze,  and  some  sort  of  crumpled 
leaf  in  lier  hand.  So,  one  day,  observing  that 
she  was  not  in  the  house,  I  pi-etended  that  I  was 
making  ready  to  depart,  took  leave  of  Kirila 
]\Iatvyeevitch,  put  on  my  hat,  and  emerged  from 
the  anteroom  into  the  courtyard,  and  from  the 
courtyard  into  the  street,  but  instantly,  with  ex- 
traordinary swiftness,  slipped  back  through  the 
gate  and  made  my  way  past  the  kitchen  into 
the  garden.  Luckily,  no  one  espied  me.  With- 
out pausing  long  to  think,  I  entered  the  grove 
with  hasty  steps.  Before  me,  on  the  path,  stood 
Liza.  JNIy  heart  began  to  beat  violently  in  my 
breast.  I  stopped  sh.ort,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  approaching  lier,  when  all 
of  a  sudden,  without  turning  round,  she  raised  her 
hand  and  began  to  listen.  .  .  .  From  behind  the 
trees,  in  the  direction  of  the  blind-alley,  two 
knocks  rang  out  clearly,  as  though  some  one  were 
tapping  on  the  fence.  Liza  clapped  her  hands, 
a  faint  squeaking  of  the  wicket-gate  became  audi- 
ble, and  Bizmyonkoff  emerged  from  the  coppice. 
I  promptly  hid  myself  behind  a  tree.  Liza  turned 
silently  to\\ard  him.  .  .  .  Silently  he  drew  her 
arm  through  his,  and  both  walked  softly  along  the 
path.  I  stared  after  them  in  astonishment.  They 
lialted,  looked  abf)ut  them,  disappeared  behind  the 
bushes,  appeared  again,  and  finally  entered  the  ar- 

82 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

bour.  This  arbour  was  circular  in  shape,  a  tiny  ht- 
tle  building,  with  one  door  and  one  small  window; 
in  the  centre  was  to  be  seen  an  old  table  with  a  sin- 
gle leg,  overgrown  with  fine  green  moss;  two 
faded  little  plank  divans  stood  at  the  sides,  at 
some  distance  from  the  damp  and  dark-liued 
walls.  Here,  on  unusually  hot  days,  and  tliat 
once  a  year,  and  in  former  times,  the}^  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  drinking  tea.  The  door  would  not 
shut  at  all;  the  frame  had  long  ago  fallen  out  of 
the  window  and,  catching  by  one  corner,  dangled 
mournfully,  like  the  wounded  wing  of  a  bird.  I 
stole  up  to  the  arbour  and  cautiously  glanced 
through  a  crack  of  the  window.  Liza  was  sitting 
on  one  of  the  little  divans,  with  drooping  head; 
her  right  hand  lay  on  her  lap;  Bizmyonkoff  was 
holding  the  left  in  both  his  hands.  He  was  gaz- 
ing at  her  with  sympathy. 

"  How  do  you  feel  to-day?  " — he  asked  her,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Just  the  same!  "  —  she  replied; — "  neither  bet- 
ter nor  worse.  —  Emptiness,  frightful  empti- 
ness! "  —  she  added,  dejectedly  raising  her  eyes. 

Bizmyonkoff  made  no  reply. 

"What  think  you,"  she  went  on; — "will  he 
write  to  me  again?  " 

"  I  think  not,  Lizaveta  Kirillovna!  " 

She  remained  silent  for  a  while. 
'  And,  in  fact,  what  is  there  for  him  to  write 
about?    He  told  me  everything  in  his  first  letter. 

83 


THE  DIARY  OF 

I  could  not  be  his  wife:  but  I  was  liappy  .  .  .  not 
for  long.   ...   I  was  happy.  .  .  ." 

BiznivonkofF  lowered  his  eves. 

"Akh,"  — she  went  on  witli  animation;— "  if 
you  only  knew  how  loathsome  that  Tchulkaturin 
is  to  me!  ...  It  always  seems  to  me  that  I  can 

see his  blood  ...  on  that  man's  hands." 

(I  writhed  behind  my  crack.)  "  However,"  — she 
added  thoughtfully;  —  "who  knows,  —  perhaps 
had  it  not  been  for  that  duel  ....  Akh,  when  I 
beheld  him  wounded,  1  inmiediately  felt  that  I 
was  all  his." 

"  Tchulkaturin  loves  you," — remarked  Biz- 
myonkoff. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  that?  Do  I  need  any  one's 
love?  .  .  ."  She  paused,  and  added  slowly :  .  .  . 
"  except  yours.  Yes,  my  friend,  your  love  is  in- 
dispensable to  me :  without  you  I  should  have  per- 
ished. You  have  helped  me  to  endure  terrible  mo- 
ments. ..." 

She  ceased.  .  .  .  BizmyonkofF  began  to  stroke 
her  hand  with  paternal  tenderness.  "  There  's  no 
help  for  it,  there  's  no  help  for  it,  Lizaveta  Kiril- 
lovna," — he  repeated,  several  times  in  succession. 

"  Yes,  and  now,"  —  she  said  dully,  — "  I  think  I 
sliould  die  if  it  were  not  for  you.  You  alone  sus- 
tain me;  moreover,  you  remind  me  ....  For  you 
know  evervthing.  Do  vou  remember  how  hand- 
some  he  was  that  day ;  ....  lint  forgive  me:  it 
must  be  painful  for  you.  .  .  ." 

84 


A   SUPERILUOT^S   ]MAN 

"  Speak,  speak!  A\'hat  do  you  mean?  God 
bless  you!  "  —  l^izniyoukoff  interru])te(l  her.  She 
s(jueezed  his  liand. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Bi/inyonkoff,"  —  she  went 
on:  — "  you  are  as  kind  as  an  angel.  What  am  I 
to  do?  1  feel  that  1  shall  love  him  until  1  die.  I 
have  forgiven  him,  I  am  grateful  to  him.  INIay 
God  grant  liim  happiness!  May  God  give  him  a 
wife  after  his  own  heart!  "  —  And  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  — "  If  only  he  does  not  forget  me,  if 
only  he  will  now  and  then  recall  his  Liza  to  mind. 
Let  us  go  out,"  —  she  added,  after  a  brief  pause. 

Bizmyonkoff  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  I  know,"  — she  began  with  warmth, — "  every 
one  is  blaming  me,  every  one  is  casting  stones  at 
me  now.  Let  them!  All  the  same,  I  would  not 
exchange  my  unhappiness  for  their  happiness 
.  .  .  no!  no!  .  .  .  He  did  not  love  me  long,  but 
he  did  love  me !  He  never  deceived  me :  he  did  not 
tell  me  that  I  was  to  be  his  wife;  I  myself  never 
thought  of  sucli  a  thing.  Only  poor  ])apa  hoped 
for  that.  And  now  I  am  still  not  utterly  un- 
happy :  there  remains  to  me  the  memory,  and  how- 
ever terrible  the  consequences  may  be  ....  I  am 
stifling  here  ....  it  was  here  that  I  saw  him  for 
the  last  time.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  out  into  the  air." 

They  rose.  I  barely  managed  to  leap  aside  and 
hide  behind  a  thick  linden.  They  came  out  of  the 
arbour  and,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  judge  fi'om  tlie 
sound  of  their  footsteps,  went  off  into  the  grove. 

85 


TTTK  DTAHY  OF 

J  do  not  know  how  lontj-  1  luul  been  standing 
there,  witliout  stirring-  from  the  spot,  absorl)ed  in 
a  sort  of  irrational  surprise,  wlien  suddenly  tlie 
sound  of  footsteps  became  audible  again.  1 
started  and  peered  cautiously  fi-om  my  ambush. 
Bi'/mvonkoff  and  Liza  were  returnino"  by  the 
same  path.  Both  were  gi'eatly  agitated,  especially 
Bizmyonkoff.  lie  liad  been  weeping,  ap})ar- 
ently.  Liza  lialted,  gazed  at  him,  and  uttered  the 
following  words  distinctly:  "  I  consent,  Bizmyon- 
koff. I  would  not  have  consented,  had  you  merely 
wished  to  save  me,  to  extricate  me  from  a  fright- 
ful position;  but  you  love  me,  you  know  all — and 
3'ou  love  me;  I  shall  nevei-  find  a  more  trustwor- 
thy, faithful  friend.    I  will  be  your  wife." 

Bizmyonkoff  kissed  her  hand;  she  smiled  sadly 
at  him,  and  went  to  the  house.  Bizmyonkoff 
dashed  into  the  thicket,  and  I  went  my  w^ay.  As 
Bizmyonkoff  had  probably  said  to  I^iza  precisely 
what  I  had  intended  to  say  to  her,  and  as  she  had 
given  him  precisely  the  answer  which  I  had  hoped 
to  hear  from  her,  there  w^as  no  necessity  for  my 
troubling  myself  further.  \  fortnight  later  she 
married  him.  The  old  Ozhogins  were  glad  to  get 
any  bridegroom. 

Well,  tell  me  now,  am  not  I  a  superfluous  man  ? 
Did  not  I  play  in  the  whole  of  that  affair  tlie  part 
of  a  superfluous  man?  Tlie  role  of  the  Prince 
.  ...  as  to  that,  there  is  notliing  to  be  said;  the 
role  of  Bizmyonkoff  also  is  comprehensible  .  .  .  . 

86 


X 


V   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 


15ut  \l    W\\y  was  I  mixed  up  in  it?  .  .  .  wliat  a 
stupid,  fifth  wheel  to  the  eart  1  was!  .  .  .  .iVkh,       ^ 
't  is  bitter,  bitter !  ...   So  now%  as  tlie  stevedores 
oil   tlie   Volga  say:   "  Ileave-ho!  heave-ho! '' '—        \ 
one  more  little  day,  then  another,  and  notliing  will 
be  either  bitter  or  sweet  to  me  any  more. 

:Mareh  81. 

Things  are  bad.  I  write  these  lines  in  bed.  The 
weather  has  ehanged  suddenly  since  yesterday. 
To-day  is  hot — almost  a  summer  day.  Every- 
thing is  thawing,  crumbling,  and  streaming. 
There  is  an  odour  of  ploughed  earth  in  the  air: 
a  heavy,  powerful,  op2)ressive  odour.  The  steam 
is  rising  everywhere.  The  sun  is  fairly  beating, 
fairly  blazing  down.  I  am  in  a  bad  way.  I  feel 
that  I  am  decomposing. 

I  started  out  to  write  a  diary,  and  instead  of 
that,  what  have  I  done?  I  have  narrated  one 
incident  out  of  my  own  life.  I  have  been  bab- 
bling, sleeping  memories  have  waked  up  and  car- 
ried me  away.  I  have  written  leisurely,  in  de- 
tail, as  though  I  still  had  years  before  me;  and 
now,  lo,  there  is  no  time  to  continue.  Death, 
death  is  advancing.  I  can  already  hear  its  men- 
acing crescendo.  .  .  Time  's  up.  .  .  .  Time  's 
up! .  .  . 

1  The  hurlakl  on  the  Volj^'a  used  to  tow  tlic  barg'es  from  Astrakhan 
to  Nizhni  N(5vj?orod  Fair,  against  the  current.  'I'he  stevedores  also 
are  eall<'d  Imrldki,  and,  as  tliey  lade  tlie  hnrjies,  their  I'hantey  runs 
(more  Hterally  tlian  I  liave  translated  it  above):  "  Yetanother  little 
time,  j'et  again,  .   .   ."  and  so  fortli.  —  Tkanslatok. 

87 


THE  DIARY  OF 

And  M-liere  's  the  liann '.  Does  it  niake  any  dif- 
ference what  1  have  tokH  In  tlie  presence  of 
deatli  all  the  last  earthly  vanities  disappear.  I 
feel  that  I  am  quieting  down;  I  am  becoming 
more  simple,  more  clear.  I  have  acquired  sense, 
but  too  late!  ...  'T  is  strange!  I  am  growing 
still— 't  is  true,  and,  nevertheless,  1  am  overcome 
with  dread.  Yes,  I  am  overcome  with  dread. 
Half-leaning  over  the  voiceless,  yawning  gulf, 
I  shudder,  I  turn  aside,  with  eager  attention  I 
gaze  about  in  all  directions.  Every  object  is 
doublv  dear  to  me.  I  cannot  gaze  mv  till  at  mv 
poor,  cheerless  room,  as  I  bid  farewell  to  every 
tiny  Heck  on  my  walls!  Sate  yourselves  for  the 
last  time,  ye  eyes  of  mine!  Life  is  withdrawing; 
it  is  flowing  evenlv  and  softly  awav  from  me, 
like  the  shore  from  the  glances  of  the  traveller 
by  sea.  The  aged,  yellow  face  of  my  nurse, 
bound  up  in  a  dark  kerchief,  the  hissing  samovar 
on  the  table,  the  pot  of  geranium  in  front  of  the 
window,  and  thou,  my  poor  dog,  Tresor,  the  pen 
wherewith  I  indite  these  lines,  my  own  hand,  I 
see  you  now  ....  there  you  are,  there.  .  .  . 
Is  it  possible  ....  to-day  perhaps  ...  I  shall 
see  you  no  more?  'T  is  ])ainful  for  a  living  being 
to  part  with  life!  Why  dost  thou  fawn  on  me, 
poor  dog?  W\\\  dost  thou  lean  thy  breast 
against  my  bed  convulsively  tucking  under  thy 
short  tail,  and  never  taking  from  me  thy  kind, 
sad  ej-es?     ^Vrt  thou  sorry  for  me?     Dost  thou 

88 


A   STTPERFTJTOTTS   MAN 

already   feel    iristinetivelv   that    thy   master   will 

•  •  • 

soon  be  no  more?  Akh,  if  I  eoukl  also  pass  in 
reyiew  mentally  all  the  objects  in  my  room!  I 
know  that  these  memories  are  cheerless  and  in- 
significant, but  I  haye  no  othei's.  Emptiness, 
frightful  emptiness!  as  Liza  said. 

Oh,  my  God!  My  (rod!  Here  I  am  dying. 
.  .  .  My  heart  capable  of  loye,  and  ready  to  loye, 
^vill  soon  cease  to  beat.  .  .  And  can  it  be  that  it 
will  be  silenced  foreyer,  without  haying  eyen  once 
tasted  of  happiness,  \yithout  haying  a  single 
time  swelled  beneath  the  sw^eet  burden  of  joy? 
Alas!  't  is  impossible,  impossible,  I  know.  .  .  If 
at  least  now,  before  my  death — and  death,  neyer- 
theless,  is  a  sacred  thing,  for  it  eleyates  eyery 
being — if  some  charming,  sad,  friendly  yoice 
were  to  sing  oyer  me  the  parting  song  of  my 
own  w^oe,  perhaps  I  might  become  reconciled  to 
it.     But  to  die  is  stupid,  stupid.  .  . 

I  belieye  I  am  beginning  to  raye. 

Fare\yell  life,  farewell  my  garden,  and  you, 
my  lindens!  AVhen  summer  comes,  see  that  you 
do  not  forget  to  coyer  yourselyes  with  flow^ers 
from  top  to  bottom  ....  and  may  good  people 
lie  in  your  fragrant  shade,  on  the  cool  grass 
beneath  the  lisping  murmur  of  your  leayes, 
lightly  agitated  by  the  breeze.  Farewell,  fare- 
well!   Farewell  eyerything,  and  foreyer! 

Farewell,  Liza!  I  haye  written  these  two 
w^ords— and  haye  almost  laughed.     That  exclan.- 

89 


THE  DIxVRY  OF 

ation  seems  bookish.  I  seem  to  be  composing 
a  sentimental  novel,  and  ending  up  a  despairing 
letter.  .  .  . 

To-morrow  is  the  first  of  April.  Can  it  be 
that  I  shall  die  to-morrow?  That  would  be  ra- 
ther indecorous  even.     However,  it  befits  me.  .  . 

How  the  doctor  did  gab])le  to-day.   .  .  . 

April  1. 

'T  IS  over.  Life  13  ended.  I  really  shall  die 
to-day.  It  is  hot  out  of  doors  .  .  .  almost  sti- 
fling ....  or  is  it  that  my  chest  is  already  re- 
fusing to  breathe?  Mv  little  comedy  has  been 
played  through.     The  curtain  is  falling. 

In  becoming  annihilated,  1  shall_..cease  to  be 
superfluous.  .  .         -=— =< 

Akh,  how  brilliant  that  sun  is!  Those  powerful 
rays  exhale  eternity.  .  . 

Farewell,  Terentievna!  .  .  .  This  morning, 
as  she  sat  by  the  window,  she  fell  to  weeping 
.  .  .  .  perhaps  over  me  .  .  .  and  perhaps,  be- 
cause she  herself  must  die  before  long  also.  1 
made  her  promise  "  not  to  hurt  "  Tresor. 

It  is  difficult  for  me  to  write.  ...  I  drop  my 
pen.  .  .  'T  is  time!  Death  is  alread}^  drawing 
near  with  increasing  rumble,  like  a  carriage  by 
night  on  the  pavement:  it  is  here,  it  is  hovering 
around  me,  like  that  faint  breath  which  made 
the  liair  of  the  prophet  stand  upright  on  his 
head.  .  . 

90 


A   SUPERFLUOUS   MAN 

I  am  dying.  .  .  Live  on,  ye  living. 

And  may  the  youiifr  life  play 
At  the  entrance  of  the  grave, 
And  Nature  the  indifferent 
With  beauty  beam  forever! 

Note,  of  the  Editor.  — Under  this  last  line  there  is  the  profile  of  a 
head  with  a  large  crest-curl  and  moustache,  with  eyes  en  face,  and 
ray-like  eyelashes;  and  under  the  head  some  one  has  written  the 
following  words: 

The  abov  manuscript  has  been  read 

And  the  Contints  Thereof  Bin  Approved 

By  Pyetr  Zudotydshin 

M     M     M     M 

Dear  Sir 

Pyetr  Zudotyeshin. 

My  Dear  Sir. 

But  as  the  chirography  of  these  lines  does  not  in  the  least  agree 
with  the  chirography  in  which  the  remainder  of  the  note-book  is 
written,  the  editor  considers  himself  justified  in  concluding  that  the 
above-mentioned  lines  were  added  afterward  bj'  another  person ;  the 
more  so,  as  it  has  come  to  his  (the  editor's)  knowledge  that  Mr. 
Tchulkaturin  really  did  die  on  the  night  of  April  1-2,  18  .  .  ,  in  his 
natal  estate  — Ov^tchi  Vody. 


91 


THREE  PORTRAITS 

(1840) 


THREE  PORTRAITS 


THE  neighbours  "  constitute  one  of  the  most 
serious  (h-awbacks  to  country  hfe.  I  knew 
one  landed  proj^rietor  of  the  Government  of 
Vologda,  who,  at  every  convenient  o|)])ortunity, 
was  wont  to  repeat  the  following  words:  "  Thank 
God,  I  have  no  neighbovu's!  "  —  and  I  must  ad- 
mit that  I  could  not  refrain  from  envying  that 
lucky  mortal. 

My  little  village  is  situated  in  one  of  the  most 
thickly-populated  governments  of  Russia.  I  am 
surrounded  by  a  vast  multitude  of  petty  neigh- 
bours, beginning  with  the  well-intentioned  and 
respected  landed  proprietors,  clad  in  capacious 
dress-coats,  and  more  capacious  waistcoats,  — and 
ending  with  arrant  roysterers,  who  wear  hussar- 
jackets  with  long  sleeves  and  the  so-called 
"  fimsky  "  knot  on  the  back.  In  the  ranks  of 
these  nobles,  however,  I  have  accidentally  dis- 
covered one  very  amiable  young  fellow.  Once 
upon  a  time  he  was  in  the  military  service,  then 
he  retired,  and  settled  down  for  good  and  all 
in  the  country.  According  to  his  account,  he 
served  two  years  in  the  B***  regiment;  but  I 
positively    cannot    understand    how    that    man 

95 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

could  liave  dischart^cd  any  duties  wliatsoever,  not 
only  for  the  space  of  two  years,  but  even  for 
the  space  of  two  days.  He  was  horn  "  for  a 
peaceful  life,  for  rustic  tranquillity,"  that  is  to 
say,  for  indolent,  careless  veoetation,  which,  I 
may  remark  in  parenthesis,  is  not  devoid  of  ^reat 
and  inexhaustible  charms. 

lie  enjoyed  a  very  respectable  property: 
without  troubling  himself  too  much  about  the 
management  of  his  estate,  he  spent  about  ten  thou- 
sand rubles  ^  a  year,  procm-ed  for  himself  a  capi- 
tal cook  (my  friend  was  fond  of  good  eating)  ; 
he  also  imported  from  ^Moscow  the  newest  French 
books  and  journals.  He  read  nothing  in  Rus- 
sian except  the  reports  of  his  overseer,  and  that 
with  great  difficulty.  From  morning  until  dinner 
(if  he  did  not  go  off  hunting),  he  did  not  dofF 
his  dressing-gown;  he  sorted  over  some  sketches 
or  other  pertaining  to  the  management,  or  be- 
took himself  to  the  stable,  or  to  the  threshing- 
shed,  and  indulged  in  a  good  laugh  with  the 
peasant  wives,  who  rattled  their  chains,  as  the 
saying  is,  in  his  presence,  out  of  ostentation. 
After  dinner  my  friend  dressed  himself  before 
the  mirror  with  great  care,  and  drove  off  to  some 
neighbour  endowed  with  two  or  three  ])retty 
young  daughters;  heedlessly  and  pacifically,  he 

^  A  ruble,  at  the  present  time,  is  worth,  on  an  average,  about  fifty- 
two  cents.  At  the  period  here  referred  to,  the  silver  ruble  would  pur- 
ciiase  more  than  a  ruble  nowadays,  while  the  paper  ruble  was  worth 
very  little.  —  TiiANSi.ATOu. 

96 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

dangled  after  one  of  them,  played  at  blind-man's 
buff  with  them,  returned  home  rather  late,  and 
immediately  sank  into  heroic  slumber.  He  could 
not  feel  bored,  because  he  never  devoted  him- 
self to  absolute  inaction,  and  he  was  not  fas- 
tidious as  to  his  choice  of  occupations,  and,  like 
a  child,  was  amused  with  the  smallest  trifle.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  felt  no  special  attachment  to 
life,  and,  it  sometimes  happened,  that  when  it 
became  necessary  to  outrun  a  wolf  or  a  fox,  he 
would  launch  his  horse  at  full  speed  over  such 
ravines,  that  to  this  day  I  cannot  understand 
why  he  did  not  break  his  neck  a  hundred  times. 
He  belonged  to  the  category  of  people  who  evoke 
in  you  the  thought  that  they  are  not  aware  of  tlieir 
own  value,  that  beneatli  their  external  generosity 
great  and  mighty  passions  are  concealed;  but  he 
would  have  laughed  in  your  face,  if  he^  could 
have  guessed  that  you  cherished  such  an  opinion 
concerning  him;  yes,  and,  I  am  bound  to  admit, 
I  think  myself  that  if  my  friend  was  haimted  in 
his  youth  by  any  aspiration,  indistinct  but  ])ower- 
ful,  toward  what  is  very  prettily  called  "  some- 
thing higher,"  that  aspiration  had  long,  long  ago 
calmed  down  in  him  and  pined  away. 

He  was  rather  obese,  and  enjoyed  splendid 
health.  In  our  age,  it  is  impossible  not  to  like 
people  who  give  little  thought  to  themselves,  be- 
cause they  are  extremely  rare  ....  and  my 
friend  almost  completely  forgot  his  own  person. 

97 


THREE    lUJKTKxVlTS 

However,  I  liave  already  said  too  iiiucli  about 
him,  I  think— and  my  chattering  is  all  the  more 
ill-})Iaced,  since  he  does  not  serve  as  the  subject 
of  my  story.  His  name  was  Piotr  Feodorovitch 
LutchinofF. 

One  autumn  day,  five  of  us  thorough-going 
sportsmen  had  assembled  togethei-  at  Piotr  Feo- 
dorovitch's.  We  had  s])ent  the  entire  morning 
in  the  fields,  had  coursed  two  wolves  and  a  mul- 
titude of  hares,  and  had  returned  home  in  the 
ravishinglj^-agreeable  frame  of  mind  which  in- 
vades every  well-regulated  man  after  a  successful 
hunt. 

Twilight  was  descending.  The  wind  was  play- 
ing over  the  dark  fields,  and  noisily  rocking  the 
naked  crests  of  the  birches  and  lindens  which  sur- 
rounded Lutchinoff's  house.  We  arrived,  and 
alighted  from  our  horses.  .  .  On  the  porch  I 
lialted  and  glanced  about  me:  long  storm-clouds 
were  crawling  Jieavily  across  the  grey  sky;  a 
dark-brown  bush  was  writliing  in  the  wind,  and 
creaking  ])iteously;  the  yellow  grass  bent  feebly 
and  sadly  to  the  ground :  flocks  of  blackbirds  were 
flying  to  and  fro  among  the  mountain-ash  trees, 
dotted  with  clusters  of  bright-scarlet  berries;^ 
in  the  slender  and  brittle  branches  of  the  birch- 
trees  tomtits  were  hopping  and  whistling;  the 
dogs  were  barking  hoarsely  in  the  village.  INIelan- 

1  A  very  good  preserve,  with  a  slij^htly  wild  or  bitter  taste,  is  made 
from  these  berries  in  Russia.  It  is  a  favourite  preserve  for  putting 
in  tea.  —  Translator. 

98 


TTTRKK    PORTRAITS 

(•holy  ()vcr])o\vei*e(l  inc  ....  for  wliicli  reason  1  en- 
tered the  (hning-rooni  with  genuine  ))leasure.  The 
shutters  were  closed;  on  tlie  round  table,  covered 
with  a  cloth  of  dazzling-  whiteness,  in  the  midst 
of  crystal  caraffes  filled  with  red  wine,  burned 
eio-ht  candles  in  silver  candlesticks;  a  fire  blazed 
merrily  on  the  hearth — and  an  old,  very  comely 
butler,  with  a  huge  bald  spot,  dressed  in  Eng- 
lish fashion,  stood  in  respectful  immobility  in 
front  of  another  table,  which  was  already  adorned 
with  a  large  soup-tureen,  encircled  with  a  light, 
fragrant  steam.  In  the  anteroom  w-e  had  j^assed 
another  respectable  man,  engaged  in  cooling 
the  champagne — "  according  to  the  strict  rules 
of  the  art." 

The  dinner  was,  as  is  usual  on  such  occasions, 
extremely  agreeable;  w^e  laughed,  recounted  the 
incidents  which  had  occurred  during  the  hunt, 
and  recalled  with  rapture  two  notable  "  drives." 
After  having  dined  rather  heartily,  we  disposed 
ourselves  in  broad  arm-chairs  in  front  of  the 
fireplace;  a  capacious  silver  bowl  made  its  ap- 
pearance on  the  table,  and,  a  few  moments  later, 
the  flitting  flame  of  rum  announced  to  us  our 
host's  pleasant  intention  to  "  brew  a  ])unch."  — 
Piotr  Feodorovitch  was  a  man  not  lacking  in 
taste;  he  knew,  for  example,  that  nothing  has 
such  deadly  effect  on  the  fancy  as  the  even,  cold, 
and  pedantic  light  of  lamps  — therefore  he  or- 
dered that  only  two  candles  should  be  left  in 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

the  room.  Strange  half -shadows  quivered  on  the 
walls,  produced  by  the  fitful  play  of  the  fire  on 
the  hearth,  and  the  flame  of  the  punch  ....  a 
quiet,  extremely  agreeable  comfort  i-eplaced  in 
our  hearts  the  somewhat  obstreperous  jollity 
which  had  reigned  at  dinner. 

Conversations  have  their  fates  — like  books  (ac- 
cording to  the  Latin  apothegm)',  like  everything 
in  the  world.  Our  conversation  on  that  evening 
was  peculiarly  varied  and  vivacious.  In  part  it 
rf)se  to  decidedly  imp(n-tant  general  questions, 
then  lightly  and  unconstrainedly  returned  to  the 
commonplaces  of  everyday  life.  .  .  .  After  chat- 
ting a  good  deal,  we  all  suddenly  fell  silent.  At 
such  times,  they  say,  the  angel  of  silence  flits  past. 

I  do  not  know  why  my  companions  ceased 
talking,  but  I  stopped  because  my  eyes  had  sud- 
denly paused  on  three  dusty  portraits  in  black 
wooden  frames.  The  colours  had  been  rubbed 
off,  and  here  and  there  the  canvas  was  warped, 
but  the  faces  could  still  be  distinguished.  The 
middle  portrait  represented  a  woman,  young  in 
years,  in  a  white  gown  with  lace  borders,  and  a 
tall  coifl^ure  of  the  eighties.  On  her  right,  against 
a  perfectly  black  background,  was  visible  the 
round,  fat  face  of  a  good-natured  Russian 
landed  proprietor  five-and-t^\•enty  years  of  age, 
with  a  low,  broad  forehead,  a  stubby  nose,  and  an 
ingenuous  smile.  The  powdered  French  coifi^'ure 
was  extremely  out  of  kee])ing  with  the  expres- 

100 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

sion  of  his  Slavonic  countenance.  The  artist  liad 
depicted  him  in  a  kaftan  of  crimson  line  witli 
large  strass  buttons;  in  his  hand  he  held  some 
sort  of  unusual  Hower.  The  third  ])ortrait, 
painted  by  another  and  more  experienced  hand, 
represented  a  man  of  thirty,  in  a  green  uniform 
of  the  period  of  Katherine  II,  with  red  fac- 
ings, a  white  under-waistcoat,  and  a  thin  batiste 
neckerchief.  With  one  hand  he  leaned  on  a 
cane  with  a  gold  head,  the  other  he  had  thrust 
into  his  waistcoat.  His  thin,  swarthy  face 
breathed  forth  insolent  arrogance.  His  long, 
slender  eyebrows  almost  met  over  his  pitch-black 
eyes;  on  his  pale,  barely -perceptible  lips  jjlayed 
an  evil  smile. 

"  What  makes  you  stare  at  those  faces?  "  — 
Piotr  Feodorovitch  asked  me. 

"Because!"  —  I  answered,  looking  at  him. 

"  Woidd  you  like  to  hear  the  whole  story  about 
those  three  persons?  " 

"  Pray,  do  us  the  favour  to  tell  it,"  —  we  re- 
plied with  one  voice. 

Piotr  Feodorovitch  rose,  took  a  candle,  raised 
it  to  the  portraits,  and  in  the  voice  of  a  man  who 
is  exhibiting  wild  animals,  "Gentlemen!"  he 
proclaimed:  "  this  lady  is  the  adopted  daughter  of 
my  own  great-grandfather,  Olga  Ivanovna  NN., 
called  Lutchinoff,  who  died  unmarried  forty 
years  ago.  This  gentleman,"  —  pointing  to  the 
portrait  of  the  man  in  uniform,  — "  is  sergeant 

101 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

of  tlie  Guards,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  Lutcliinoff, 
wlio  departed  this  life,  by  tlie  will  of  Crod,  in 
the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety. 
And  this  gentleman,  to  whom  I  have  not  the 
honour  to  be  related,  is  a  certain  Pavel  Afana- 
sievitch  RogatchyofF,  who  never  served  any- 
where, so  far  as  I  am  aware.  Please  to  note  the 
hole  which  is  in  his  breast,  in  the  exact  place  of 
the  heart.  This  hole,  which  is,  as  you  see,  regular, 
and  three-cornered,  probably  could  not  have  hap- 
pened accidentally.  .  .  .  Xow,"  —  he  went  on  in 
his  ordinary  voice,  — "  please  to  take  your  seats, 
arm  yourselves  with  patience,  and  listen." 

Gentlemen  (he  began)  I  descend  from  a 
fairly  ancient  race.  I  am  not  proud  of  my 
descent,  because  ni}"  ancestors  were  all  frightful 
spendtlirifts.  This  reproach,  however,  does  not 
apply  to  my  great-grandfather,  Ivan  Andreevitch 
liUtchinoff,  —  on  the  contrary,  he  bore  the  repu- 
tation of  being  an  extraordinarily  penurious  and 
even  miserlv  man  —  during  tlie  last  vears  of  his 
life,  at  all  events.  He  passed  his  youth  in  Peters- 
burg, and  was  a  witness  of  Elizaveta's  reign. 
In  Petersburg  he  married,  and  had  by  his  wife, 
who  was  also  my  great-grandmother,  four  chil- 
dren—  three  sons,  Vasilv,  Ivan  and  Pavel  (mv 
grandfather) ,  and  one  daughter,  Xatalya.  In  ad- 
dition to  these,  Ivan  ^Vndreevitch  took  into  his 
family  the  daughter  of  a  distant  relative,  a  full 

102 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

and  nameless  orphan,  — Olga  Ivanovna,  of  whom 
I  have  ah-eady  spoken.  jNIy  great-grandfatlier's 
subjects  were,  probably,  aware  of  his  existence, 
because  they  were  in  the  habit  of  sending  to  him 
(when  no  particular  catastrophe  had  happened) 
a  very  considerable  sum  in  quit-rents; — but  they 
had  never  beheld  his  face.  The  village  of  Tjutchi- 
novko,  deprived  of  the  light  of  its  master's 
countenance,  was  thriving,  —  when,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, one  fine  morning,  a  heavy  travelling  carriage 
drove  into  the  village,  and  drew  up  in  front  of 
the  Elder's  cottage.  The  peasants,  startled  by 
such  an  unprecedented  event,  flocked  thither  and 
beheld  their  master,  mistress,  and  all  the  pair's 
offspring,  with  the  exception  of  the  eldest,  Vasily, 
who  had  remained  in  Petersburg.  From  that 
memorable  day  forth,  and  to  the  very  day  of  his 
death,  Ivan  Andreevitch  never  quitted  Lutchi- 
novko.  He  built  himself  a  house,  this  very  house 
in  which  I  now  have  the  pleasure  of  chatting 
with  you;  he  also  built  the  church,  and  began 
to  live  the  life  of  a  landed  proprietor.  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch was  a  man  of  huge  stature,  gaunt, 
taciturn,  and  extremely  slow  in  all  his  move- 
ments; he  never  wore  a  dressing-gow^n,  and  no 
one,  with  the  exception  of  his  valet,  had  ever  seen 
him  with  un])owdered  hair.  Ivan  Andreevitch 
habitually  walked  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back,  slowly  turning  his  head  at  every  step. 
Every  day  he  walked  in  the  long  linden  alley, 

103 


TITRKE    rOKTKAlTS 

which  he  had  })lanted  witli  his  own  hands,  —  and 
before  his  death  lie  liad  tlie  satisfaction  of  en- 
joying the  shade  of  those  hndens. 

Ivan  Andree\'itcli  was  extremely  i)arsimonious 
of  his  words;  this  remarkable  circumstance  may 
serve  as  a  proof  of  his  taciturnity  —  that  in  the 
space  of  twenty  years  he  never  said  a  single  word 
to  his  spouse,  Anna  Pavlovna.  Altooether,  his 
relations  to  Anna  Pavlovna  were  of  a  very 
strange  nature.  — She  administered  all  the  domes- 
tic affairs,  at  dinner  she  always  sat  by  her  hus- 
band's side,  —  he  would  ruthlessly  have  chastised 
any  man  who  presumed  to  utter  one  disrespectful 
word  to  her, —  and  j^et  he  himself  never  spoke 
to  her,  and  never  touched  her  hand.  Anna 
Pavlovna  was  a  pale,  timid,  crushed  woman; 
every  day  she  prayed  in  church  on  her  knees,' 
and  never  smiled.  It  was  said  that  formerly, 
that  is  to  say,  before  their  arrival  in  the  coun- 
try, they  had  lived  in  grand  style;  it  was  said, 
also,  that  Anna  Pjivlovna  had  broken  her  mari- 
tal vows,  that  her  husband  had  found  out  about 
her  fault.  .  .  .  However  that  may  have  been, 
Ivan  Andreevitch.  even  when  he  lay  dying,  did 

1  Except  during  Lent,  and  for  special  prayers  on  Christmas  Day, 
New  Year's  Day  and  Pciilecost  (Trinity  Sunday),  hardly  any  kneel- 
ing is  prescribed  by  the  rubrics  of  the  Eastern  Catholic  Church. 
During  Easter-tide  and  on  all  Sundays  it  is  forbidden  by  the  rubrics, 
on  the  ground  that  joy  in  tiie  resurrection  should  overpower  tlie  sense 
of  sin  and  contrition.  These  rules  are  not  always  regarded.  But  a 
person  who  kneels  much  is  conspicuous,  and  spectators  assume  that  the 
posture  indicates  great  grief  or  contrition— as  above.  — 'riiANSLATOU. 

104 


THKKE   rORTRAITS 

not  become  reconciled  to  lier.  She  never  left  him 
(luring  his  last  illness;  but  he  seemed  not  to  no- 
tice her.  One  night,  Anna  Pavlovna  was  sitting 
in  Ivan  Andreevitch's  bedroom;  he  was  tortured 
with  insomnia;  the  shrine-lamp  was  burning  in 
front  of  the  holy  picture;  my  great-grandfather's 
servant,  Yuditch,  concerning  whom  I  shall  have 
a  couple  of  words  to  say  to  you  hereafter,  had 
left  the  room.  Anna  Pavlovna  rose,  crossed  the 
chamber,  and  flung  herself,  sobbing,  on  her 
knees  before  her  husband's  bed,  tried  to  say  some- 
thing—  and  stretched  out  her  arms.  .  .  .  Ivan 
Andreevitch  looked  at  her — and  shouted  in  a 
weak  but  firm  voice:  "  Man!  "  The  servant  en- 
tered. Anna  Pavlovna  hastily  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  returned,  reeling,  to  her  place. 

Ivan  Andreevitch's  children  were  extremely 
afraid  of  him.  They  grew  up  in  the  country, 
and  were  witnesses  of  Ivan  Andreevitch's  strange 
behaviour  to  his  wife.  They  all  passionately  loved 
Anna  Pavlovna,  but  dared  not  express  their  love. 
She  herself  seemed  to  shun  them.  .  .  .  You  re- 
member my  grandfather,  gentlemen:  to  the  day 
of  his  death,  he  alw^ays  used  to  go  about  on  tip- 
toe, and  he  s])oke  in  a  whis])er  ....  that  's 
what  habit  will  do!  My  grandfather  and  his 
brother  Ivan  Ivanovitch  were  plain,  kind,  peace- 
able and  melancholy  people;  my  grauiViante 
Natalya  married  a  coarse,  stu])id  man,  as  you 
know,  and  until  her  death  cherished  for  him  a 

105 


THREE    POKTKxVlTS 

dumb,  servile,  slieep-like  love;  but  their  brother 
Vasily  was  not  like  that. 

I  think  I  have  told  you  that  Ivan  Andreevitch 
left  him  in  Petersbur"-.  Pie  was  twenty  years 
old  at  the  time.  His  father  confided  him  to  the 
care  of  a  distant  relative,  a  man  no  longer  young, 
a  bachelor  and  a  frightful  Voltairian. 

Vasily  grew  up,  and  entered  the  service.  He 
was  small  of  stature,  but  well  built  and  extremely 
agile;  he  spoke  French  splendidly,  and  was  re- 
nowned for  his  skill  at  fighting  with  the  broad- 
sword. He  was  considered  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant young  men  of  the  beginning  of  Katherine 
II's  reign.  INIy  father  often  told  me  that  he  knew 
more  than  one  old  woman  who  could  not  men- 
tion Vasily  Ivjinovitch  I^utchinoff  without  heart- 
felt emotion.  Picture  to  yourself  a  man  gifted 
with  remarkable  strength  of  will,  passionate  and 
calculating,  patient  and  daring,  secretive  to  the 
last  degree  and  — according  to  the  words  of  all 
his  contemporaries  —  bewitehingly.  enchantingly 
amiable.  He  had  neither  conscience  nor  good- 
nature nor  honour,  although  no  one  could  call 
him  a  positively  bad  man.  He  was  selfish  —  but 
knew  how  to  conceal  his  selfishness,  and  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  indei^endence.  ^^^len  ^'^aslly 
Ivanovitch  used,  smilingly,  to  screw  up  his  black 
eyes,  when  he  wanted  to  fascinate  any  one,  thev 
say  that  it  was  im]iossil)le  to  resist  liim  — and 
even  people  who  were  convinced  of  the  coldness 

106 


TTTREK   POKTRAITS 

and  liardtiess  of  liis  spirit  more  than  once  sur- 
rendered to  the  bewitching  power  of  his  influence. 
He  zealously  served  himself,  and  made  others 
toil  also  for  his  benefit,  and  always  succeeded  in 
evervthinff,  because  he  never  lost  his  head,  did 
not  disdain  flattery  as  a  means,  and  understood 
how  to  flatter. 

Ten  years  after  Ivan  Andreevitcli  settled  in 
the  country,  he  came  to  T^utchinovko  as  a  bril- 
liant officer  of  the  Guards,  for  four  months,— 
and  in  that  space  of  time  succeeded  in  turning 
the  head  even  of  the  surly  old  man,  his  father. 
It  is  strange!  Ivan  Andreevitch  listened  with 
delight  to  his  son's  tales  of  his  conquests.  His 
brothers  were  dumb  in  his  presence,  and  admired 
him  as  a  superior  being.  And  even  Anna  Pav- 
lovna  herself  came  to  love  him  almost  more 
than  all  her  other  children,  who  were  so  sincerely 
devoted  to  her. 

Vasily  I\'anovitch  came  to  the  country,  in  the 
first  ])lace.  in  order  to  see  liis  relatives;  but,  in 
tlie  second  ])lace  also,  in  order  to  get  as  much 
money  as  ])ossible  out  of  his  father.  lie  had 
lived  sumi)tuously  and  kept  open  house  in  Peters- 
})urg,  and  had  contracted  a  multitude  oi'  debts. 
It  was  not  easy  foi-  liim  to  reconcile  liimself  to 
liis  ])arent's  stinginess,  and,  although  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch gave  him  for  liis  tri])  alone  more  money, 
in  all  probability,  than  he  gave  all  his  other  chil- 
dren in  the  space  of  the  twenty  years  which  they 

107 


TIIRKK    POUTKAITS 

spent  in  the  paternal  honse,  yet  Vasily  stnek 
to  the  faniihar  Russian  rule:  "  Take  all  you  can 
o-et!" 

Ivan  ^Andreeviteh  had  a  servant,  Yiiditch  by 
name,  as  tall,  gaunt,  and  taciturn  a  man  as  his 
master.  They  say  that  this  Vuditch  was,  in  part, 
the  cause  of  the  strange  behaviour  of  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch  to  Anna  Ptivlovna:  they  say  that  it 
was  he  who  discovered  the  guilty  liaison  of  mv 
great -grandmother  with  one  of  my  great-grand- 
father's best  friends.  Probably  Yiiditch  deeply 
repented  of  his  ill-judged  zeal,  because  it  would 
be  difficult  to  conceive  of  a  more  kind-hearted 
man.  His  memory  is  held  sacred  to  this  day  by 
all  my  house-serfs.  Yiiditch  enjoyed  the  un- 
bounded confidence  of  my  great-grandfather. 
At  that  period,  landed  proprietors  had  money, 
but  did  not  hand  it  over  to  loan  institutions  for 
safe-keeping,  but  kept  it  themselves  in  coffers, 
in  cellars,  and  the  like.  Ivan  Andreevitch  kept 
all  his  money  in  a  huge  iron-bound  coffer,  which 
stood  under  the  head  of  his  bed.  The  key  to 
this  coiFer  was  handed  over  to  Yiiditch.  Every 
evening,  when  he  went  to  bed,  Ivan  Andreevitch 
ordered  this  chest  to  be  opened  in  his  presence, 
tapped  all  the  tightly-stuffed  sacks  in  turn  with 
his  cane,  and  on  Saturdays,  he  and  Yiiditch  un- 
tied the  sacks  and  carefully  counted  over  the 
money. 

Yasily  found  out  about  all  these  performances 

108 


THREE   PORTRxVTTS 

and  was  fired  witli  a  desire  to  runiniage  a  bit 
in  the  sacred  eoft'er.  In  the  com'se  of  five  or  six 
days  he  moUificd  Yuditch,  that  is  to  say,  he  re- 
duced the  poor  old  fellow  to  such  a  state  that— as 
the  saying"  is— he  fairly  worshii)i)ed  his  young- 
master.  After  having  properly  prepared  him, 
Vasily  assumed  a  careworn  and  gloomy  asjiect, 
for  a  long  time  refused  to  answer  Yiiditch's  in- 
quiries and,  at  last,  told  him  that  he  had  gam- 
bled away  all  his  money,  and  intended  to  lay 
violent  hands  on  himself  if  he  did  not  obtain 
money  from  somewhere.  Yuditch  began  to  sob, 
flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  him,  begged 
him  to  remember  God,  not  to  ruin  his  soul.  Va- 
sily, w^ithout  uttering  a  word,  locked  himself  up 
in  his  chamber.  After  a  while,  he  heard  some 
one  knocking  cautiously  on  his  door.  He  opened 
the  door  and  beheld  on  the  threshold  Yuditch, 
pale  and  trembling,  with  a  key  in  his  hands. 
Vasily  immediately  understood  everything.  i\t 
first  he  resisted  for  a  long  time.  Yuditch  kept 
repeating  with  tears:  "Pray,  master,  take  it!" 
.  .  .  At  last,  Vasily  consented.  This  ha|)pened 
on  Monday.  The  idea  occurred  to  Vasily  to  re- 
place the  mone}^  he  abstracted  with  bits  of  glass. 
He  reckoned  on  Ivan  Andreevitch's  not  paying 
any  special  heed  to  the  bai'cly  })erce])tible  differ- 
ence in  the  sound  when  he  tajiped  the  sacks  with 
his  cane,  —  and  by  Saturday  he  ho])ed  to  obtain 
money  and  replace  it  in  the  sacks.     Xo  sooner 

109 


THREE    POinUAlTS 

thought  than  done.  His  father,  in  fact,  did  not 
notice  anything.  But  A'asily  did  not  obtain 
money  by  Saturday:  he  had  hoped,  with  the 
money  he  had  taken,  to  clean  out  at  the  card-table 
a  certain  wealthy  neighbour — and,  on  the  con- 
trary, he  lost  everything  himself.  In  the  mean- 
time, Saturday  arrived;  the  turn  came  for  the 
sacks  stuffed  with  bits  of  glass.  Picture  to  your- 
selves, gentlemen,  the  amazement  of  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch ! 

"What  's  the  meaning  of  this?" — he  thun- 
dered. 

Yuditch  made  no  reply. 

"  Hast  thou  stolen  this  money?  " 

"  Xo,  sir." 

"  Then  has  some  one  taken  the  key  from  thee?  " 

"  I  have  not  given  the  key  to  any  one." 

"  Xot  to  any  one?  If  thou  liast  not  sfiven  it 
to  any  one — thou  art  the  thief.     Confess!  " 

"  I  am  not  a  thief,  Ivan  Andreevitcli." 

"Whence  came  these  bits  of  glass,  damn  it? 
So  thou  art  deceiving  me?  For  the  last  time 
I  say  to  thee — confess!  " 

Yuditch  hung  his  head  and  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  back. 

"Hey  there,  people!"  shouted  Ivan  .;Vndree- 
vitch  in  a  raging  voice.  — "  The  rods!  " 

"What?  You  mean  to  ...  .  whip  .  .  . 
me?"  whispered  Yuditch. 

"  Thou  shalt  catch  it!     And  how  art  thou  any 

110 


TIIKEE    POHTHAITS 

better  than  the  rest?  Thou  art  a  thief!  Well, 
now,  Yiiditch!  I  had  not  expected  such  rascality 
from  thee!  " 

"  I  have  <>"rown  "rev  in  vour  service,  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch,"  said  Yuditch  with  an  effort. 

"  And  what  care  I  about  tliy  ^rey  hair?  ^Nlay 
the  devil  take  thee  and  th}^  service!  " 

The  people  entered. 

"  Take  him,  and  give  him  a  good  flogging!  " 

Ivan  Andree\'itch's  lips  were  pale  and  trem- 
bling. He  ramped  about  the  room  like  a  wild 
beast  in  a  confined  cage. 

The  men  did  not  dare  to  execute  his  com- 
mands. 

"  What  are  you  standing  there  for,  you  vile 
serfs?  have  I  got  to  lav  hands  on  him  myself,  I  'd 
like  to  know?  " 

Yuditch  started  for  the  door. 

"Stop!"  yelled  Ivan  Andreevitch.  —  "Yii- 
ditch, for  the  last  time  I  sav  to  thee,  I  entreat 
thee,  Yuditch,  confess." 

"  I  cannot,"  moaned  Yuditch. 

"  Then  seize  him,  tlie  old  sycophant!  .  .  . 
Flog  him  to  death!  On  my  head  be  it!  "  thun- 
dered the  maddened  old  man.  The  torture  be- 
gan. ... 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open,  and  Vasily  en- 
tered. He  was  almost  paler  tlian  his  fatlici-.  his 
hands  trembled,  his  upper  li])  was  raised  and  dis- 
closed a  row  of  white,  even  teetli. 

Ill 


THREE    rORTRAlTS 

"  I  am  iiiiiltv."  he  said  in  a  dull  but  steady 
voice.  —  "  I  took  the  money." 

The  men  stopped  short. 

"  Thou!  whatC  !  thou,  \^aska!  without  the  con- 
sent of  Yuditch  ?  " 

"No!"  — said  Yiiditch:  — "  with  my  consent. 
I  myself  gave  the  key  to  Vasily  Ivanovitch.  Dear 
little  father,  Vasily  Ivanovitch!  why  have  you 
deigned  to  trouble  yourself?  " 

"  So  that  's  who  the  thief  is!  "  —  shouted  Ivan 
Andreevitch.  —  "  Thanks,  Vasily,  thanks!  But 
I  shall  not  spare  thee,  Yuditch,  all  the  same. 
\Vhy  didst  not  thou  confess  all  to  me  at  once? 
Hey,  there,  you!  why  have  you  stopped?  or  do 
you  no  longer  recognise  my  authority?  And 
I  '11  settle  with  you,  my  dear  little  dove!"  he 
added,  turning  to  Vasily. 

The  men  were  on  the  point  of  setting  to  work 
again  on  Yuditch. 

"  Don't  touch  him!  "  whispered  Vasily  through 
his  teeth.  The  servants  did  not  heed  him. 
— "  Back!  "  he  shouted,  and  hurled  himself  upon 
them.  .  .   .  They  staggered  back. 

"Ah!  a  rebel!  "  —  moaned  Ivan  Andreevitch, 
and  raising  his  cane,  he  advanced  on  his  son. 

Vasily  leaped  aside,  grasped  the  hilt  of  his 
sword,  and  bared  it  half-way.  All  began  to 
tremble.  Anna  Pihlovna,  attracted  by  the  noise, 
frightened  and  pale,  made  her  appearance  in  the 
doorway. 

112 


THREE   rORTRATTS 

Ivan  Andreevitcirs  face  underwent  a  frightful 
change.  He  staggered,  dropped  his  cane,  and 
fell  heavily  into  an  arm-chair,  covering  his  face 
with  both  hands.  No  one  stirred;  all  stood  as 
tliough  rooted  to  the  spot,  not  excepting  even 
Vasily.  He  convulsively  gripped  the  steel  hilt 
of  his  sword,  his  eves  flaslied  with  a  morose,  evil 
gleam.  .  .  . 

"  Go  away  all  .  .  .  begone," — said  Ivan  An- 
dreevitch  in  a  low  voice,  without  removing  his 
hands  from  his  face. 

The  whole  throng  withdrew.  Vasily  halted  on 
the  threshold,  then  suddenly  tossed  his  head,  em- 
braced Yuditch,  kissed  his  mother's  hand  .  .  . 
and  two  honrs  later  Ire  was  no  longer  in  the  vil- 
lage.   He  had  departed  for  Petersburg. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  Yuditch  was  sit- 
ting on  the  porch  of  the  house-serfs'  cottage. 
The  servants  swarmed  around  him,  pitied  him, 
and  bitterly  blamed  the  master. 

"  Stop,  my  lads,"  he  said  to  them  at  last; — 
"  enough  of  that  ....  Avhy  do  you  abuse  him? 
I  don't  believe  that  he,  our  dear  little  father,  is 
pleased  himself  witli  his  desperate  deed.  .  .  ." 

As  a  result  of  this  affair,  Vasily  never  saw  his 
jjarents  again.  Ivan  Andreevitch  died  without 
him,  probably  with  such  grief  at  his  heart  as  may 
God  spare  any  of  us  from  experiencing.  In  the 
meantime,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  went  out  in  society, 
made  merry  after  his  own  fashion,  and  squan- 

113 


THREE    PORTKAITS 

dered  money.  How  he  obtained  the  money,  I 
cannot  say  witli  certainty.  He  2)rocured  for  him- 
self a  French  servant,  a  clever  and  intelligent 
young  fellow,  a  certain  Boursier.  This  man  be- 
came passionately  attached  to  him,  and  aided 
him  in  all  his  numerous  performances.  I  have  no 
intention  of  narrating  to  you  in  detail  all  the 
pranks  of  my  great-uncle ;  he  distinguished  him- 
self by  such  unbounded  audacity,  such  snaky 
tact,  such  incredible  cold-bloodedness,  such  adroit 
and  subtle  wit,  that,  I  must  confess,  I  can  under- 
stand the  limitless  power  of  that  unprincipled 
man  over  the  most  noble  souls.  .  .  . 

Soon  after  his  father's  death,  Vasily  Iva- 
novitch,  notwithstanding  all  his  tact,  was  chal- 
lenged to  a  duel  by  an  outraged  husband.  He 
fought,  severely  ^^'ounded  his  antagonist,  and 
was  forced  to  quit  the  capital:  he  was  ordered 
to  reside  permanently  on  his  hereditary  estate. 
Vasily  Ivanovitch  was  thirty  years  of  age.  You 
can  easily  imagine,  gentlemen,  with  what  feelings 
this  man,  who  had  ])ecome  accustomed  to  the 
brilliant  life  of  the  capital,  journeyed  to  his  na- 
tive place.  They  say  that,  on  the  road,  he  fre- 
quently got  out  of  his  kibitka,  flung  himself  face 
down  on  the  snow,  and  wept.  Xo  one  in  Lu- 
tchinovko  recognised  the  former  jolly,  amiable 
Vasily  Tvanovitcli.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  he  went 
off  hunting  from  morning  until  night,  witli  visi- 
ble impatience  endured  the  timid  caresses  of  his 

114 


I 


THREE    PORTKAITS 

mother,  and  jeered  pitilessly  at  his  brothers,  and 
at  their  wives  (both  of  them  were  already  mar- 
ried ) .  .  .  . 

So  far  I  have  said  nothing  to  you,  I  believe, 
about  Olga  Ivanovna.  She  had  been  brought 
to  Lutchfnovko  as  an  infant  at  the  breast;  she 
had  almost  died  on  the  way.  Olga  Ivano\'na  had 
been  reared,  as  the  saying  is,  in  the  fear  of  God 
and  of  her  parents.  ...  It  must  be  confessed 
that  Ivan  Andreeviteh  and  Anna  Pavlovna  both 
treated  her  like  a  daughter.  But  there  was  con- 
cealed in  her  a  feeble  spark  of  that  fire  which 
blazed  so  brightly  in  the  soul  of  Vasily  Ivano- 
vitch.  In  the  meantime,  while  Ivan  Andree- 
vitch's  own  children  did  not  dare  to  indidge  in 
conjectures  concerning  the  strange,  s])eechless 
quarrel  between  their  parents,  Olga,  from  her 
earliest  years  had  been  disturbed  and  pained  by 
the  position  of  Anna  Pavlovna.  Like  Vasily,  she 
loved  independence;  all  oppression  revolted  her. 
She  had  attached  herself  to  her  benefactress  witli 
all  the  powers  of  her  soul;  she  hated  old  Lutchi- 
noff,  and  more  than  once,  as  she  sat  at  table,  she 
had  fixed  upon  him  such  sombre  glances,  that  even 
the  man  who  was  serving  the  viands  felt  fright- 
ened. Ivan  Andreeviteh  did  not  notice  all  those 
glances,  because,  in  general,  he  paid  no  attention 
whatever  to  his  family. 

At  first,  Anna  Pavlovna  endeavoured  to  ex- 
terminate this  hatred   in   lier— -but  several  bold 

115 


threp:  poktraits 

questions  on  Olga's  part  forced  her  to  complete 
silence.  Ivan  Andreevitch's  children  adored 
Olga,  and  the  old  woman  loved  her  also,  altliough 
with  rather  a  cold  affection. 

Prolonged  sorrow  had  crushed  all  cheei'fulness, 
all  strong  feeling,  in  this  poor  woman;  nothing 
so  clearly  proves  Vasily's  bewitching  amiability 
as  the  fact  that  he  made  even  his  mother  love  him 
ardently.  Effusions  of  tenderness  on  the  part 
of  children  was  not  in  the  spirit  of  that  age,  and 
therefore  it  is  not  surprising  that  Olga  did  not 
venture  to  display  her  devotion,  although  she 
always  kissed  Anna  Pavlovna's  hand  with  par- 
ticular respect  in  the  evening,  when  she  bade  her 
good-night.  She  was  barely  able  to  read  and 
write.  Twent}^  j^ears  later,  Russian  girls  began 
to  read  novels  in  the  style  of  the  "  Adventures  of 
Marquis  G***," — "  Fanfan  and  Lolotte,"  — of 
"Alexyei;  or,  The  Cot  in  the  Forest"; — they 
began  to  learn  to  play  on  the  clavicliord  and  to 
sing  romances  in  the  style  of  the  following,  once 
very  familiar  song: 

"Men  in  the  li^^ht 

Cling  to  us  like  flies  "" — and  so  forth. 

But  in  the  '70s  (Olga  Tvanovna  was  boi-n  in  the 
year  1757),  our  rustic  beauties  had  no  concep- 
tion of  all  these  accomplishments.  It  would  be 
(hfficult   for   us   now  to   ])icture  to   ourselves   a 

116 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

young  Russian  <4'irl  of  good  birtli  of  tliat  epoch. 
We  can,  it  is  true,  judge  from  our  grandmothers 
as  to  the  degree  of  education  of  noble  gentle- 
women in  the  times  of  Katherine  II;  hut  how  is 
one  to  distinguisli  that  which  was  inculcated  in 
them  in  the  coui'se  of  their  long  life,  from  that 
which  thev  Avere  in  the  days  of  their  youth  ^ 

Olga  Ivanovna  spoke  a  little  French,  but  with 
a  strong  Russian  accent ;  in  her  day,  there  was  no 
thought  of  such  a  thing  as  the  emigres}  In  a 
word,  with  all  her  good  qualities,  she  was,  never- 
theless, a  decided  savage,  and,  probably,  in  the 
simplicity  of  her  heart,  she  more  than  once  ad- 
ministered chastisement  with  her  own  hands  to 
some  unlucky  maid.  .  .  . 

Some  time  before  Vasily  Ivanovitch's  arrival, 
Olga  Ivanovna  had  been  betrothed  to  a  neigh- 
bour,—  Pavel  Afanasievitch  Rogatchyoff,  an  ex- 
tremely good-natiu'cd  and  honourable  man.  Na- 
ture had  forgotten  to  endow  him  with  gall.  Plis 
own  servants  did  not  obey  him;  they  sometimes 
all  went  off,  from  the  first  to  the  last  of  them, 
and  left  poor  Rogatchyoff  without  any  dinner 
.  .  .  but  nothing  could  disturb  the  tranquillity 
of  his  soul.  He  had  been  distinguished,  even 
from  his  childhood,  by  his  obesity  and  sluggish- 
ness; he  had  never  served  anywhere,  and  he  was 

^  Many  exiles  caused  by  the  French  Revolution  found  refuge  in 
Russia  as  tutors.  Some  founded  families  there,  intermarrying  with 
Russians,  and  their  Russified  names  are  easily  recognisable.  — Trans- 

IjVTOH. 

117 


THKEE   rOT^TKAITS 

fond  of  going  to  cliurcli  and  singing  in  the  choir. 
Look  at  tliat  good-natured,  round  face,  gentle- 
men; gaze  at  that  tranquil,  brilliant  smile  .... 
does  not  it  make  you  feel  cheerful  yourselves? 
Once  in  a  while  his  father  liad  driven  over  to 
Lutchinovko,  and  had  l^rouglit  with  him,  on  fes- 
tival davs,  his  Pavlusha,  wliom  the  little  Lutchi- 
nofFs  tormented  in  every  possible  wa}'.  Pavlusha 
grew  up,  began  to  go  to  Ivan  Andreevitch's  of 
his  own  accord,  fell  in  love  with  Olga  Ivanovna, 
and  offered  her  his  hand  and  his  heart— not  to 
her  personally,  but  to  her  benefactors.  Her 
benefactors  gave  their  consent.  They  never  even 
thought  of  asking  Olga  Ivanovna  whether  she 
liked  RogatchyofF.  At  that  epoch, — as  our 
grandmothers  used  to  say,  —  "  such  luxuries  were 
not  in  fashion."  But  Olga  speedily  got  used  to 
her  betrothed:  it  was  impossible  not  to  grow  at- 
tached to  that  gentle,  indulgent  being. 

RogatchyofF  had  received  no  education  what- 
soever; all  he  could  say  in  French  was  "  bon- 
zhour  "  —  and  in  secret  lie  even  regarded  that  word 
as  improper.  And  some  jester  had  also  taught 
him  the  following,  whicli  professed  to  be  a  Frencli 
song:  "  Sonetchka,  Sonetchka!  Que  voulez-vous 
demoi  — I  adore  you  — mais  jc  ne  peux  pas."  .  .  . 
He  was  always  humming  this  song  in  an  under- 
tone when  he  felt  in  good  spirits.  His  father 
also  was  a  man  of  indescribably  kind  dis])o- 
sition;  he   was  forever   going   about   in    a   long 

118 


THRKK    roiJTUAlTS 

nankeen  coat,  and  no  matter  what  was  said  to  him, 
lie  assented  to  everything  witli  a  smile. 

From  the  time  of  Pavel  Afanasievitch's  he- 
trothal  hoth  the  Hogatehyoffs — father  and  son — 
hegan  to  bustle  about  fri^litf'ully ;  they  made  over 
their  house,  they  built  on  various  "  galleries,"  they 
chatted  in  friendly  wise  with  the  workmen,  thev 
treated  them  to  vodka.  They  did  not  manage 
to  finish  all  the  additional  building  by  winter — so 
they  deferred  the  wedding  until  the  summer;  in 
the  summer,  Ivan  Andreevitch  died — and  the  wed- 
ding was  postponed  until  the  following  spring; 
in  the  winter,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  arrived.  Ro- 
gatehyoff  was  introduced  to  him ;  Vasily  received 
him  coldly  and  carelessly,  and  in  the  course  of 
time,  frightened  him  to  such  a  degree  by  his  arro- 
gant treatment  that  poor  RogatchyofF  quivered 
like  a  leaf  at  his  mere  a]3pearance,  maintained  si- 
lence, and  smiled  constrainedh\  Vasily  once  came 
near  driving  him  off  for  good  —  by  offering  to  bet 
with  him  that  he,  Rogatchyoff,  was  unable  to 
stop  smiling.  Poor  Pavel  Afanasievitch  almost 
wept  with  confusion,  but  — 't  is  an  actual  fact!  — 
the  smile,  the  very  stupid,  constrained  smile, 
would  not  quit  his  face!  And  Vasily  slowly  toyed 
with  the  ends  of  his  neckcloth,  and  stared  at  him 
in  quite  too  scornful  a  manner. 

Pavel  Afanasievitch's  father  also  learned  of 
Vasily's  arrival,  and  a  few  days  later — foi-  thr 
sake  of  "  the  greater  solemnity  "—he  set  out  f  oi 

119 


THKEE   PORTRAITS 

Lutchi'novko  with  the  intention  of  "  congratu- 
hiting  the  amiable  visitor  on  his  arrival  in  his 
native  parts."  Afanasy  Afanasievitch  was  re- 
nowned throughont  the  whole  countryside  for  his 
eloquence— that  is  to  say,  for  his  ability  to  utter, 
witliout  hesitation,  a  rather  long  and  cunningly- 
concocted  speech,  with  a  slight  admixture  of 
bookish  words.  Alas!  on  this  occasion  he  did 
not  maintain  his  reputation;  he  became  confused 
much  worse  than  his  son,  Pavel  Afanasievitcli. 
He  stammered  out  something  very  unintelligible, 
and,  although  he  had  never  touched  vodka  in  his 
life,  having  this  time,  "  by  way  of  countenance," 
drunk  a  small  glassful  (he  had  found  Vasily 
at  luncheon),  he  had  endeavoured,  at  least,  to 
clear  his  throat  with  a  certain  amount  of  inde- 
pendence, and  had  not  produced  the  smallest 
sound.  As  he  set  out  for  home,  Pavel  Afanasie- 
vitch whispered  to  his  parent:  "  Well,  dear  little 
father?  "  Afanasy  Liikitch  replied  to  him  with 
irritation,  also  in  a  whisper:  "  Don't  mention  it!  " 
The  Rogatchyoffs  began  to  come  more  rarely 
to  Lutchinovko.  But  tliey  were  not  the  only 
ones  whom  Vasily  intimidated:  he  aroused  in 
his  brothers,  in  their  wives,  even  in  Anna  Pav- 
lovna  herself,  a  painful  and  involuntary  sense  of 
discomfort  ....  thev  beyan  to  avoid  him  in  all 
])ossiblc  ways.  \'asily  could  not  hel])  noticing 
this,  but,  a])])arently,  he  had  no  intention  of  al- 
tering his  behaviour  to  tliem,  when,  all  of  a  sud- 

120 


TITKKK    POirrHAITS 

den,  jit  tlic  lK'<>inniiio  oi'  the  spring,  he  again  re- 
vealed hiniseli"  as  the  same  amiable,  charming  man 
they  had  previously  known  him  to  be.  .  .  . 

The  first  revelation  of  this  sudden  change  was 
on  the  occasion  of  ^'^aslly's  unexpected  call  on 
the  Rogatcliyoff s.  Afanasy  Lukitch,  in  particu- 
lar, was  thoroughly  daunted  by  the  sight  of  Lu- 
tchinoff's  calash,  but  his  fear  very  speedily  van- 
ished. Xever  had  Vasily  been  more  amiable  and 
merry.  He  linked  his  arm  in  the  arm  of  young 
RogatchyofF,  walked  out  with  him  to  inspect  the 
buildings,  chatted  with  the  carpenters,  gave  them 
advice,  himself  made  a  few  notches  with  the  axe, 
ordered  them  to  show  him  Afanasy  Liikitch's 
stud-horses,  himself  drove  them  at  the  end  of 
a  rope— and  altogether,  by  his  cordial  amiability, 
reduced  the  kind-hearted  steppe-dwellers  to  such 
a  condition  that  they  both  repeatedh^  embraced 
him.  At  home,  also,  Vasih^  turned  all  heads  for 
a  few  davs  as  of  vore:  he  devised  various  amusing 
games,  he  procured  musicians,  invited  in  tlie 
neighbours  of  both  sexes,  narrated  the  tittle-tattle 
of  the  town  to  the  old  ladies  in  the  most  diverting 
manner,  paid  some  court  to  the  young  women, 
invented  iniheard-of  amusements,  fireworks,  and 
so  forth:  —  in  a  word,  he  enlivened  everything  and 
everybody.  The  sad,  gloomy  house  of  the  I^u- 
tcliinoffs  was  suddenly  converted  into  a  noisy, 
brilliant,  enchanting  sort  of  dwelling,  of  which  the 
whole  countryside  talked.  — This  sudden  change 

121 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

amazed  many,  dclit^litcd  all.  and  various  rumours 
got  into  circulation:  the  knowing  ones  said  that 
some  hidden  trouhle  had,  up  to  that  time,  been 
afflicting  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  that  the  possibility 
of  returning  to  the  capital  had  presented  itself  to 
him.  .  .  .  Rut  no  one  divined  the  true  cause  of 
Vasily  Ivanovitch's  regeneration. 

Olga  Ivanovna,  gentlemen,  was  very  far  from 
l)eing  uncomely.  —  Rut  her  beauty  consisted 
rather  in  remarkable  softness  and  freshness  of 
person,  in  a  tranquil  charm  of  movement,  than  in 
strict  regularity  of  features.  Xature  had  en- 
dowed her  with  a  certain  independence;  her  edu- 
cation—  she  had  been  reared  an  orphan — had  de- 
veloped in  her  caution  and  firmness.  Olga  did 
not  belong  to  the  category  of  quiet  and  languid 
young  gentlewomen:  but  one  feeling  alone  had 
fully  ripened  in  her:  hatred  for  her  benefactor. 
However,  other  and  more  womanly  passions  also 
could  flame  up  in  Olga  Ivanovna's  soul  with  un- 
usual, unhealthy  force  ....  but  there  was  in 
her  none  of  that  proud  coldness,  nor  that  comj^act 
strength  of  soul,  nor  that  selfish  concentration, 
without  which  every  passion  speedily  vanishes. — 
The  first  outbursts  of  such  half-active,  half-pas- 
sive souls  are  sometimes  remarkably  violent;  but 
they  very  soon  undergo  a  change,  especially  when 
it  becomes  a  question  of  the  ruthless  a])plication 
of  accepted  ])rinciples;  they  fear  the  conse- 
quences. .  .  .  And,  yet,  gentlemen,  I  must  con- 

122 


THREE   PORTRAITS 

f ess  to  you  frankly :  women  of  that  sort  produce 
upon  me  a  very  strong  impression.  .  .  . 

( At  these  words,  the  narrator  tossed  off  a  glass 
of  water  at  one  draught.  — "  Nonsense!  non- 
sense! "  —  1  thouglit,  as  1  looked  at  his  round  cliin  : 
— "  on  vou,  mv  dear  friend,  no  one  in  the  world 
produces  '  a  very  strong  impression.'  ")    ... 

Piotr  Feodorovitch  went  on : 

Gentlemen,  I  believe  in  blood,  in  race.  There  was 
more  blood  in  Olga  Ivanovna,  than,  for  example, 
in  her  nominal  sister — Natalya.  How  did  that 
"blood"  show  itself?— you  ask  me. — Why,  in 
everything;  in  the  outline  of  her  hands  and  of  her 
lips,  in  the  spund  of  her  Aoice,  in  her  glance,  in  her 
walk,  in  the  way  she  dressed  her  hair,  — in  the  folds 
of  her  gown,  in  short.  In  all  these  trifles  there  was 
a  certain  hidden  something,  although  I  must  ad- 
mit that  that  ....  how  shall  I  express  it?  ...  . 
that  distinction  whicli  had  fallen  to  tlie  lot  of  Oloa 
Ivanovna  would  not  have  attracted  the  attention 
of  Vasilv  if  he  had  met  her  in  Petersburg.  But 
in  the  country,  in  the  wilds,  she  not  only  excited 
his  attention,  —  but  even,  altogetlier,  was  the  sole 
cause  of  the  change  of  which  I  have  just  spoken. 
Judge  for  yourselves:  Vasily  Ivanovitch  was 
fond  of  enjoying  life;  he  could  not  hel])  being 
bored  in  the  countrj^^;  his  brothers  were  kind- 
hearted  fellows,  but  extremely  limited  in  mind; 

123 


THREE   rOKTKAlTS 

he  had  nothing  in  common  with  them.  His  sis- 
ter Xatiilya  and  her  husband  had  had  four  chil- 
dren in  the  space  of  three  years ;  between  her  and 
Vasilv  lav  a  whole  abyss.  .  .  Anna  Pavlovna 
went  to  churcli,  prayed,  fasted,  and  prejjared  her- 
self for  death.  There  remained  only  Olga,  a  rosy, 
tiniid.  charming  young  girl.  .  .  At  first  Vasily 
did  not  notice  her  .  .  .  and  who  would  turn  his 
attention  on  an  adopted  child,  an  orphan,  a 
foundling?  ....  One  day,  at  the  very  begin- 
ning of  spring,  he  was  walking  through  the  gar- 
den, and  with  his  cane  switching  off  the  heads  of 
the  chicory,  those  stupid  yellow  flowers  which 
make  their  appearance  in  such  abundance  first  of 
all,  in  the  meadows  as  yet  hardly  green.  —  He  was 
strolling  in  the  garden  in  front  of  the  house, 
raised  his  head — and  beheld  Olga  Ivanovna. — 
She  was  sitting  with  her  side  to  the  window,  and 
ga/ing  pensively  at  a  striped  kitten,  which,  ])iu-r- 
ing  and  blinking,  had  cuddled  down  on  her  lap, 
and  with  great  satisfaction  was  presenting  its 
little  nose  to  the  spring  sunshine,  already  fairly 
l)rilliant.  Olga  Ivanovna  wore  a  white  morning- 
gown  with  shoi-t  sleeves;  her  bare,  faintly-rosy, 
as  yet  not  fully-developed  shoulders  and  arms 
breathed  fortli  freslmess  and  health;  a  small  cap 
discreetly  confined  her  thick,  soft,  silky  locks;  her 
face  was  sliglitly  flushed;  slie  had  not  been  long 
awake.  Her  slender,  supjjle  neck  was  bent  for- 
ward so   cliarmingly;   her   unconfined   form   re- 

124 


TIIUKE   rORTllAITS 

posed  so  engagingly  and  modestly  that  Vasily 
Ivanovitch  (a  great  connoisseur!)  involuntarily 
halted  and  took  a  look.  It  suddenly  came  into 
his  head  that  Olga  Ivanovna  ought  not  to  he  left 
in  her  pristine  ignorance,  that  in  time  she  might 
turn  out  to  he  a  very  chai-ming  and  very  amiahle 
woman.  He  crept  up  to  the  window,  raised  him- 
self on  tiptoe,  and  im])rinted  a  silent  kiss  on  Olga 
Ivanovna's  smooth,  white  arm,  a  little  helow  the 
elbow.  —  Olga  screamed  and  sprang  to  her  feet, 
the  kitten  elevated  its  tail,  and  leaped  into  the 
garden;  Vasily  Ivanovitch  detained  her  with  his 
hand.  .  .  .  Olga  blushed  all  over,  to  her  very 
ears;  he  began  to  jest  at  her  fright  ....  invited 
her  to  walk  with  him;  but  suddenly  Olga  Iva- 
novna noticed  the  negligence  of  her  attire — 
"  more  swiftlv  than  the  swift-footed  doe,"  she 
slipped  into  the  next  room. 

That  same  day,  Vasily  set  off  for  the  Roga- 
tchyoiFs'.  He  suddenly  grew  gaj^  and  brightened 
up  in  spirit.  Vasily  did  not  fall  in  love  with  Olga, 
no! — one  must  not  trifle  with  the  word  love.  .  .  . 
He  had  found  for  himself  an  occupation,  he  had 
set  himself  a  task,  and  was  rejoicing  with  the  joj-^ 
of  an  active  man.  He  never  even  called  to  mind 
the  fact  that  she  was  his  mother's  ado]ited  child, 
the  betrothed  of  another  man ;  he  did  not  deceive 
himself  for  a  single  instant ;  he  was  very  well  aware 
that  she  could  not  be  his  wife.  .  .  .  Perhaps  pas- 
sion was  his  excuse — not  a  lofty,  not  a  noble  pas- 

125 


THREE   rOTJTKATTS 

sion,  't  is  true,  but,  nevertlieless,  a  tolerably  strong 
and  torturing  passion.  Of  course  he  did  not  fall 
in  love  like  a  child;  he  did  not  surrender  himself 
to  vnibounded  raptures;  he  knew  well  what  he 
wanted  and  what  he  was  aiming  at. 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  possessed  to  perfection  the 
ability  to  win  the  favour  of  others,  even  of  those 
who  were  prejudiced  or  timid.  Olga  speedily 
ceased  to  shun  him.  Vasily  Ivanovitch  intro- 
duced her  into  a  new  world.  He  imported  a 
clavichord  for  her,  gave  her  music  lessons  (he 
played  very  fairly  himself  on  the  flute ) ,  he  read 
books  to  her,  he  had  long  talks  with  her.  .  .  .  The 
poor  young  steppe-girl's  head  was  turned:  Va- 
sily had  completely  subjugated  her.  He  knew 
how  to  talk  to  her  about  that  wliich,  hitherto,  had 
been  foreign  to  her,  and  to  talk  in  a  language 
which  she  understood.  Olga  gradually  brought 
herself  to  express  all  her  feelings  to  him;  he 
lielped  her,  suggested  to  her  the  words  which  she 
could  not  find;  he  did  not  startle  her;  he  now  re- 
pressed, now  encouraged  her  impulses.  .  .  .  Vasily 
occupied  himself  with  her  education  not  out  of  a 
disinterested  desire  to  awaken  and  develop  her 
abilities ;  he  simply  wanted  to  bring  her  somewhat 
closer  to  him,  and  he  knew,  moreover,  that  it  is 
easier  to  attract  an  inexperienced,  shy,  but  vain 
young  girl  by  the  mind  than  by  tlie  heart.  Even 
if  Olga  had  been  a  remarkable  being,  Vasily  could 
not  possibly  have  observed  it,  because  he  treated 

126 


TTTKKK    POlMlJAirS 

her  like  a  child ;  but  you  already  know,  gentlemen, 
that  there  was  nothing  noteworthy  about  Olga. 

Vasily  strove,  as  niucli  as  possible,  to  work  on 
her  imagination,  and  often  of  an  evening  she 
would  leave  him  with  sueli  a  wliirl  of  new  images, 
words,  and  thoughts  in  lier  liead,  tliat  slie  was 
unable  to  get  to  sleep  until  dawn,  and  sighing 
sadly,  she  pressed  her  burning  cheeks  against  her 
cold  pillows ;  or  she  rose  and  went  to  the  window, 
and  gazed  timorously  and  eagerly  into  the  far- 
away gloom  Vasilv  filled  every  moment  of  her 
life;  she  could  not  think  of  any  one  else.  She 
soon  ceased  to  take  any  notice  of  Rogatchyoflf. 
Vasily,  being  a  shrewd  and  clever  man,  did  not 
speak  to  Olga  in  his  presence;  but  he  either  con- 
fused him  to  the  verge  of  tears,  or  got  up  some 
boisterous  game,  a  stroll  in  the  evening,  a  rowing- 
party  on  the  river  by  night  with  lanterns  and 
music,  —  in  a  word,  he  did  not  give  Pavel  Afana- 
sievitch  a  chance  to  recover  his  ground.  But. 
despite  all  Vasily  Ivanovitch's  cleverness,  Ro- 
gatchyoff  was  dimly  conscious  that  he,  the  be- 
trothed and  the  future  hus])and  of  Olga,  had  be- 
come, as  it  were,  a  stranger  to  her  ....  but,  in 
his  infinite  good-heartedness,  he  was  afraid  of 
wounding  her  by  a  reproach,  although  he  really 
loved  her  and  prized  her  affection.  \\'hen  he  was 
alone  with  her,  he  did  not  know  what  to  talk 
about,  and  merely  endeavoured  to  serve  her  in 
every  possible  way.    Two  months  passed.    Every 

327 


I'lIKKK   POlMUAriS 

Iracv  ol'  independence,  of  will,  disappeared  in 
0]cr-d:  the  weak  and  taeitnrn  Kogatehyoff  could 
not  serve  liei-  as  a  prop;  slie  did  not  even  try  to 
resist  the  fascination,  and  with  a  sinkino-  lieart 
she  i»ave  herself  nncon(htionallv  to  Vasilv.   .   .   . 

Olga  Ivanovna,  it  is  prol)a])le,  tlien  learned  the 
joys  of  love;  hut  not  for  long.  Althonoh  Vasily 
—  for  the  lack  of  any  other  occupation  — not  oidy 
did  not  discard  her,  hut  even  hecanie  attached  to 
her,  and  j^etted  her,  yet  Olga  lost  herself  to  such  a 
decree  that  she  did  not  find  hliss  even  in  love,  and 
nevertheless  she  was  unahle  to  tear  herself  away 
from  A'asily.  She  hegan  to  he  afraid  of  every- 
thing, she  did  not  dare  to  think;  she  talked  of 
nothing;  she  ceased  to  read;  she  hecame  a  prey 
to  melancholy.  Sometimes  Vasily  succeeded  in 
drawing  her  after  him,  and  making  her  forget 
evervhodv  and  everything;  but  on  the  following 
day  he  found  her  pale  and  silent,  with  cold  hands, 
with  a  senseless  smile  on  her  lips.  .   .  . 

A  decidedly  difficult  time  began  for  Vasily; 
but  no  difficulties  could  daunt  him.  He  concen- 
trated himself  com])letely,  like  an  expert  gam- 
bler. He  could  not  count  u])on  Olga  Ivanovna  in 
the  sliglitest  degree;  she  was  incessantly  betray- 
ing herself,  i)aling,  and  blushing  and  weeping 
.  .  .  her  new  role  was  beyond  her  strength. 
Vasily  toiled  for  two;  in  his  boisterous  and  noisy 
joy  only  an  experienced  observer  coidd  have  de- 
tected a  feverish  tenseness;  he  played  with  his 

128 


THHKK    POKTUAITS 

hrotlit'is,  liis  sisters,  the  liogatchyoft's,  the  nei<^li- 
bours,  both  men  and  women,  — as  though  they 
Iiad  been  pawns;  he  was  eternally  on  the  alert, 
lie  never  allowed  a  single  glance,  a  single  move- 
ment to  escape  Inm,  although  he  appeared  to  be 
the  most  care-free  of  mortals;  every  morning  he 
entered  into  battle,  and  every  evening  he  cele- 
brated a  victory.  He  was  not  in  the  least  op- 
pressed by  this  strange  activity;  he  slept  four 
hours  a  day,  he  ate  very  little,  and  was  healthy, 
fresh,  and  gay.  In  the  meantime,  the  wedding- 
day  was  approaching;  Vasily  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing Pavel  Afanasievitch  himself  of  the  neces- 
sity of  a  postponement;  then  he  despatched  him 
to  jMoscow  to  make  some  ])urchases,  and  himself 
entered  into  correspondence  with  his  Petersbui-g 
friends.  He  exerted  himself  not  so  much  out  of 
comi)assion  for  Olga  Ivanovna,  as  out  of  a  de- 
sire and  love  for  fuss  and  bustle.  .  .  .  ^Ioreo\er, 
he  had  begun  to  grow  tired  of  Olga  Ivanovna, 
and  more  than  once  already,  after  a  fierce  out- 
burst  of  ])assi()n,  he  had  looked  at  her  as  he  had 
l)een  wont  to  look  at  KogatchyofF.  Lutchinotf 
always  remained  a  imzzle  to  every  one;  in  the 
very  coldness  of  his  implacable  spirit  you  felt  con- 
scious of  the  presence  of  a  strange,  almost  south- 
ern flame,  and  in  the  maddest  heat  of  passion, 
cold  emanated  from  that  man.  — In  the  presence 
of  others,  he  U2:)held  Olga  Ivanovna  as  befoie;  but 
when  he  was  alone  with  her,  he  played  with  her 

129 


TIIKEK   rORTRxVlTS 

as  a  cat  plays  witli  a  mouse  — he  either  terrified 
her  with  so])hisnis,  or  he  exhibited  heavy  and 
vicious  tedium,  or,  in  conchision,  he  threw  himself 
at  her  feet  again,  swept  her  away,  as  a  whirlwind 
sweeps  a  chip  ....  and  he  was  not  then  pre- 
tending to  be  in  love  .  .  .  but  really  was  swoon- 
ing with  it  himself.  .  . 

One  day,  quite  late  in  the  evening,  Vasily  was 
sitting  alone  in  his  own  room  and  attentively 
perusing  the  latest  letters  he  had  received  from 
Petersburg— when,  suddenly,  the  door  creaked 
softly  and  Palashka,  Olga  Ivanovna's  maid,  en- 
tered. 

"What  dost  thou  want?  "  —  Vasily  asked  her, 
quite  curtly. 

"  iNIy    mistress    begs    that    you    will    come    to 
ler. 

"  1  can't  at  present.  Cto  a^^'ay.  .  .  \Vv\\,  why 
dost  thou  stand  there?  "  —  he  went  on,  perceiving 
that  Palashka  did  not  leave  the  room. 

"  ^ly  mistress  ordered  me  to  say  that  there  is 
very  great  need,  sir." 

''Well,  ])ut  what  's  the  matter:'  " 

"  Please  to  see  foi-  yourseli',  sir.  .  .  ." 

Vasfly  rose,  with  a  exation  tossed  the  letters  into 
a  casket,  and  })et()ok  himself  to  Olga  Ivanovna. 
She  was  sitting  alone  in  a  corner,— pale  and  mo- 
tionless. 

"  AVhat  do  you  want?  "—he  asked  lier,  not  very 
j)<)litcly. 

130 


TTTKKK  poinirvrrs 

0\g'd  looked  at  him,  and  with  a  shudder,  cov- 
ered her  eyes. 

"  AMiat  ails  yow!  what  's  the  matter  with  thee, 
OlKa?" 

Tic  look  1ki-  liaiul.  .  .  Olga  Ivanovna's  hand 
Avas  as  cold  as  ice.  .  .  She  tried  to  speak  .... 
and  her  voice  died  away.  Tlie  poor  woman  liad 
no  douht  left  in  her  mind  as  to  her  condition. 

A'asily  was  somewhat  disconcerted.  Olga  Iva- 
no\na's  room  was  a  couple  of  paces  from  the  bed- 
room of  Anna  Pavlovna.  Vasily  cautiously 
seated  himself  beside  Olga,  kissed  and  warmed 
lier  hands,  and  argued  with  her  in  a  whisper.  She 
listened  lo  liim,  and  sliivcred  silently,  slightly. 
Pahishka  stood  in  the  doorway  and  softly  wiped 
away  lier  tears.  In  the  adjoining  room  a  pen- 
dulum was  beating  heavily  and  regularly,  and  the 
breathing  of  a  sleeper  was  audible.  Olga  Iva- 
novna's torpor  dissolved,  at  last,  in  tears  and  dull 
sobs.  Tears  are  tlie  equivalent  of  a  thunder- 
storm: after  them  a  person  is  always  quieter. 
Wlicn  Olga  Ivanovna  had  become  somewhat  com- 
posed, and  only  s()l)be(l  con\nlsively  from  time  to 
time  like  a  child,  ^^aslly  knelt  down  before  her, 
and  with  caresses  and  tender  promises  soothed  her 
completely,  gave  her  a  drink  of  water,  i)ut  her 
to  bed.  and  went  away.  All  night  long  he  did 
not  undress  himself,  wrote  two  or  three  letters, 
burned  two  or  three  papers,  got  out  a  golden 
locket  with  the  portrait  of  a  black-browed  and 

131 


riiKKK  roHiHAirs 

black-eyed  woniaiu  with  a  l)okl.  .sensual  luce, 
gazed  long  at  her  i'eatures,  and  paced  his  cham- 
ber in  thought.  On  the  following  morning,  at 
tea,  he  beheld,  with  a  good  deal  of  dissatisl'action, 
pool*  Olga's  reddened,  swollen  eyes,  and  ])ale,  dis- 
ti'aught  face.  After  breakfast,  he  proj)osed  to 
her  that  she  should  lake  a  sti-oll  with  him  in 
the  park.  Olga  followed  Vasily  like  an  obedi- 
ent sheep.  Hut  when,  two  hours  later,  she  re- 
turned from  the  ])ark.  she  looked  dreadfully;  she 
told  Anna  Pavlovna  that  she  felt  ill,  and  went  to 
bed.  During  the  walk,  Vasily  had  announced  to 
her,  with  all  due  penitence,  that  he  was  secretly 
married  — he  was  just  as  much  a  bachelor  as  I 
am.  Olga  Ivanovna  did  not  fall  down  in  a  swoon 
—  people  fall  in  swoons  only  on  the  stage;  but 
she  became  suddenly  petrified,  although  she  not 
only  had  not  been  hoj^ing  to  marry  Vasily  Iva- 
novitch.  but  had  even,  somehow,  been  afraid 
to  think  of  it.  Vasily  began  to  demonstrate  to 
her  the  necessity  of  j)arting  from  him  and  mar- 
rying Rogatchyoff.  Olga  Ivanovna  looked  at 
him  with  duml)  horror.  Vasily  talked  coldly, 
j)ractically.  sensibly;  he  l)lamed  himself,  he  ex- 
pressed regret,  —  but  all  his  arguments  wound  up 
with  the  following  words:  "  We  must  act."  Olga 
lost  her  head  completely;  she  was  frightened 
and  ashamed;  dismal,  heavy  despair  took  ix)sses- 
sion  of  her;  she  longed  for  death  — and  sadly 
awaited  Vasily's  decision. 

132 


THKEK    POU'iKxVlTS 

"  We  must  confess  all  to  my  mother,"  he  said 
at  last. 

Olga  turned  deadly  pale;  her  limbs  gave  way 
beneath  her. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  don't  be  frightened." 
—  Vasily  kept  repeating:  — "  rel}^  on  me;  I  will 
not  forsake  thee  ...  1  will  arrange  everything 
.  .  .  trust  in  me." 

The  poor  woman  gazed  at  him  with  love  .  .  .  yes, 
with  love,  and  with  ])rofound.  though  hopeless 
devotion. 

"  I  will  arrange  everything,  everything,"  — 
said  Vasily  to  her  at  parting  .  .  .  and  for  the 
last  time  kissed  her  ice-cold  hands. 

Olga  Ivanovna  had  just  risen  from  her  bed  on 
the  following  morning,  when  her  door  opened 
.  .  .  and  Anna  Pavlovna  made  her  appearance 
on  the  threshold.  She  was  supported  by  A^asily. 
Silently  she  made  her  way  to  an  arm-chair,  and 
silently  seated  herself.  Vasily  stood  beside  her. 
He  seemed  composed;  his  brows  Avere  contracted, 
and  his  lips  were  slightly  parted.  Anna  Pav- 
l()\'na.  j)ale,  indignant,  wratlifiil.  tried  to  si)eak, 
but  her  voice  failed  hei-.  Olga  IvjinoAiia  \\  ith 
terror,  took  in,  in  a  single  glance,  her  benefac- 
tress and  her  lover:  she  felt  a  frightful  sinking 
at  the  heart  .  .  .  with  a  shriek  she  fell  down  on 
her  knees  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.   .   .   . 

"So    it    is    true  ...   it    is    true!""    whispered 

Vi3 


THREE    PORTRAITS 

Anna  Piivlovna,  and  bent  toward  lier.  .  .  .  "An- 
swer! "  —  she  went  on  liarshly.  seizing  Olga  by 
the  arm. 

"  ^Nlaninia!  '  lang  out  Vasily's  ])razen  voice, — 
"  you  promised  me  not  to  insult  her." 

"  I  won't  .  .  .  come,  confess  ....  confess 
...  is  it  true?    Is  it  true?  " 

"  INIamma  .  .  .  remember!  .  .  ."  said  Vasily, 
slowly. 

That  one  word  shook  Anna  I'avlovna  violently. 
She  leaned  against  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  fell 
to  sobbing. 

Olga  Ivanovna  softly  raised  her  head  and  at- 
tempted to  fling  herself  at  the  old  woman's  feet, 
but  Vasily  restrained  her,  raised  her  up,  and 
seated  her  in  another  arm-chair.  Anna  Pavlovna 
continued  to  weep  and  whisper  incoherent 
words.  .  .  . 

"  Listen,  manuna," — began  Vasily.  "  Don't 
be  so  overwhelmed!  This  calamity  can  still  be  al- 
leviated. ...  If  Rogatchyoff  .  .  .  ." 

Olga  Ivanovna  shuddered  and  straightened 
herself  u]). 

"  If  Rogatchyoff,"  —  pursued  Vasily,  with  a 
significant  glance  at  Olga  Ivanovna,  — "  has  im- 
agined that  he  can  with  impunity  disgrace  an 
honourable  family  .  .   .  ." 

Olga  Ivanovna  was  terrified. 

"  In  my  house,"  —  moaned  Anna  Pavlovna. 

"  Calm  yourscH".  mamma.     lie  has  taken  ad- 

134 


THHKi':  poiriKAns 

vantage  of  her  inexperience,  of  her  youth,  he 
....  did  you  wish  to  say  something?  "—he 
added,  perceiving  that  Olga  was  trying  to  get  at 
him. 

Olga  Ivfinovna  fell  back  in  her  chair. 

"  I  shall  go  at  once  to  Rogatchyoff.  1  shall 
force  him  to  wed  her  this  very  day.  Be  assured, 
I  shall  not  permit  him  to  jeer  at  us.  ..." 

"  But  .  .  .  Vasilv  Ivanovitch  .  .  .  you  .  .  ." 
whispered  Olga. 

He  stared  long  and  coldly  at  her.  She  relapsed 
into  silence. 

"  ^lamma,  give  me  your  word  not  to  disturb 
her  until  my  arrival.  See— she  is  barely  alive. 
Yes,  and  you  require  rest  yourself.  Trust  to 
me:  I  answer  for  everything;  in  any  case,  await 
my  return.  I  repeat  to  you— do  not  kill  her,  nor 
yoiu'self — rely  upon  me." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  and  paused. 

"  Mamma,"— he  said:  "  come  with  me.  Leave 
her  alone,  I  beg  of  you." 

Anna  Pavlovna  rose,  went  to  the  holy  picture, 
made  a  reverence  to  the  floor,  and  softly  followed 
her  son.  Olga  Ivanovna  followed  lier  silently 
and  immovably  with  her  eyes.  Vasilv  hastilv 
came  back,  seized  her  hand,  whispered  in  her  ear: 
"  Trust  to  me,  and  do  not  betray  us," — and  im- 
mediately withdrew.  .  .  . 

"  Boursier!  "  he  shouted,  as  he  ran  swiftly 
down  the  stairs.  —  "  Boursier!  " 

13.5 


riiKKK  ruirruAns 

A  quarter  ol'  an  liour  later  lie  was  seated  in  his 
calash  with  his  servant. 

Old  Uogatehyoft'  was  not  at  home  that  day. 
He  had  ^onc  to  the  county  town,  to  huy  seer- 
sucker i'or  kaftans  to  clothe  his  I'ctainers.  Pavel 
.Vi'anasievitch  was  sitting-  in  his  study,  and  in- 
s))ecting  a  collection  of  faded  hutterflies.  Ele- 
vating- his  eyehrows,  and  thrusting  forth  his  lips, 
he  was  cautiously  turning  about  with  a  pin  the 
large  wings  of  the  "  nocturnal  sphinx,"  when 
suddenly,  he  i'elt  a  small  but  heavy  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  He  glanced  round  —  before  him  stood 
Vasily. 

"  Good  morning,  Vasily  Ivanoviteh,"  — said  he, 
not  without  some  surprise. 

Vasily  looked  at  him  and  sat  down  in  front  of 
him  on  a  chair. 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  was  about  to  smile  .  .  . 
but  glanced  at  Vasily,  relaxed,  o])ened  liis  mouth, 
and  clasped  his  hands. 

"  Come,  tell  me,  Pavel  Afanasievitch,"  — began 
Vasilv,  suddenly:  — "  do  vou  intend  to  have  the 

»  ••  • 

wedding  soon? " 

"  I?  .  .  .  soon  ....  of  cour.se.  ...  I,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned  ....  however,  that  is  as  you 
and  your  sister  choose.  .  .  .  T,  for  my  part,  am 
leadv  to-morrow,  if  vou  like." 

"  Very  good,  very  good.     You  are  a  very  im- 
j)atienl  man,  T'avel  Afa?iasievitch." 
How  so,  su'f 

130 


TIIKKK    POHTKAITS 

"  Listen,"  —  added  Vasily  lvano\iteli,  rising 
to  liis  feet:  —  "  1  know  everything;  yon  nnder- 
stand  me,  and  I  order  you  to  marry  Olga  without 
delay,  to-morrow." 

''  But  excuse  me,  excuse  me,"  — returned  Ko- 
gatchyoff,  without  rising  from  his  seat;  — "  you 
order  me?  1  myself  have  sought  the  hand  of 
Olga  Ivanovna,  and  there  is  no  need  to  order  me. 
I  nmst  confess,  \"asily  Ixanovitch,  somehow,  I 
don't  understand  you.   .  .   ." 

"  Thou  dost  not  understand?  " 

"  No,  really,  I  don't  understand,  sir." 

"  Wilt  thou  give  me  thy  word  to  marry  her  to- 
morrow? " 

"  Why,  good  gracious,  Vasily  Ivanovitch  .... 
have  n't  you  yourself  i-epeatedly  postponed  our 
marriage  :f  If  it  had  not  heen  for  j^ou,  it  would 
have  taken  place  long  ago.  And  even  now  1 
have  no  idea  of  refusing.  But  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  your  threats,  of  your  urgent  demands?" 

Pavel  Afanasievitch  wijjed  the  perspiration 
from  his  face. 

"  Wilt  thou  give  me  thy  word?  Speak!  Ves, 
or  no?  "  — rej^eated  Vasily  with  pauses  between 
his  wo]-ds. 

"  Certainly  ...    1  give  it,  sir,  but  .   .   .   ." 

"  Good.  Remember.  .  .  .  And  she  has  con- 
fessed everything." 

"  \Vho  has  confessed?  " 


Olga  Ivtinovna." 


i:]7 


THREE   rORTKAlTS 

"  But  what  has  slie  confessed?  " 

"  Why  do  vou  dissinndate  with  me,  Pavel 
Af anasievitch  ?  Surely,  I  'in  not  a  stranger  to 
you. 

"  How  am  I  dissimulating^  I  don't  understand 
you,  I  don't  understand  you,  positively  I  don't 
understand  you.  AVhat  could  Olga  Ivanovna 
confess? " 

"  What?  You  bore  me!  You  know  well  w^liat." 

"  May  God  slay  me  if  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  will  slay  thee — if  thou  dost  not  marry 
her  ....  dost  understand?  " 

"What!  .  .  .  ."  Pavel  Af  anasievitch  leaped 
to  his  feet,  and  stood  before  Vasily.  — "  Olga  Iva- 
novna ....  you  say  .  .  .  .  ' 

"  Thou  'j-t  clever,  my  good  fellow,  very  clever, 
I  must  admit."  Vasily,  with  a  smile,  tapped  him 
on  the  shoulder.  —  "  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  thou 
art  so  mild  of  aspect  .  .  .  ." 

"My  God,  O  God!  .  .  .  You  will  drive  me 
mad.  .  .  What  do  you  mean  to  say?  Explain 
yourself,  for  God's  sake!" 

Vasily  bent  over  him  and  whispered  something 
in  his  ear. 

Rogatcli\off  cried  out:  —  "  ^V]lat?  ....  how?  " 

Vasily  stamped  his  foot. 

"  Olga  Ivanovna?    Olga?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes  ....  your  betrothed  bride.  .  .  ." 

"  My  betrotlied  bride  ....  Vasily  Ivano- 
\'itch  ....  she     ...  she  ....  Rut  I  will  liave  no- 


THKKK   F()l{rUAlTS 

thing  to  do  with  her!  "  —  shouted  Pavel  Afanasie- 
vitch.  "  I  '11  have  none  of  her!  What  do  you 
take  me  for?  To  deceive  me — to  deceive  me! 
.  .  .  Olga  Ivanovna,  is  n't  it  sinful  of  you,  are  n't 
you  ashamed?  .  .  .  ."  (Tears  gushed  from  his 
eyes.)  — "  T  thank  you,  Vasilv  Ivanovitch,  1  thank 
you.  .  .  .  And  now  1  '11  liave  nothing  to  do  with 
her!  I  won't!  I  won't!  don't  speak  of  such  a 
thing!  ....  Akh,  good  heavens! — that  I  should 
have  lived  to  see  this  day!  But  it  is  well,  it  is 
well!" 

"  Stop  hehaving  like  a  haby," — remarked 
Vasilv  Ivanovitch,  coldly.  — "  Remember,  you 
have  given  me  your  word  that  the  wedding  shall 
take  place  to-morrow." 

"  No,  that  shall  not  be !  Enough,  Vasily  Iva- 
novitch, I  say  to  you  once  more — for  whom  do 
you  take  me?  You  do  me  much  honour;  many 
thanks,  sir.    Kxcuse  me,  sir." 

"  As  you  like!  "  —  retorted  Vasily.  —  "  Get  your 

»  *  m.' 

sword." 

"Why?" 

"  This  is  why." 

Vasily  drew  out  his  slender,  flexible  French 
sword,  and  bent  it  slightly  against  the  floor. 

"  You  mean  ....  to  flght  ....  with  me?   .  .  ." 

"  Precisely  so." 

"  But,  Vasi'ly  Ivanovitch,  pray,  enter  into 
my  position!     How  can  I  — judge  for  yourself 

—  after    wliat    you    have    told    mc?  ...  I    am 

130 


an  honest  man.  Vasily  Ivanovitcli:  T  am  a  noble- 
man." 

"  N'oii  are  a  FK^bleinan.  you  are  an  honest  man, 
-  tlien  be  so  good  as  to  tiglit  witli  me." 

"Vasily  Ivanovitcli!" 

''  ^'(m  a|)])eai'  to  be  a  eoward.  ^Fr.  Koga- 
teliyofrr' 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  a  coward  ^^aslly  Ivano- 
vitch.  Vou  luivc  thouglit  to  frighten  me,  A^asily 
Ivanovitch.  '  Come,  now,'  you  said  to  yourself, 
'  1  '11  scare  him,  and  he  '11  turn  cowardly ;  he  will 
instantly  consent  to  anything.'  ....  No,  Vasily 
Ivanovitch,  I  'm  the  same  sort  of  nobleman  as 
yourself,  altliough  I  liave  not  received  my  edu- 
cation in  the  capital,  it  is  true:  and  you  will  not 
succeed  in  terrifying  me.  excuse  me." 

"Very   good,"  — retorted    Vasily :  —  "  where   is 

your  swords  " 

"  Eroshka! '—shouted  Pavel  Afanasievitch. 

A  man  entered. 

"  Get  mv  sword— yonder  — thou  knowest  where 
it   is     in   the   garret   ....   and   be   (juick   about 

it.   .   .   ." 

Erdshka  withdrew.  ]*avel  Afanasievitch  sud- 
denlv  turned  extremelv  i)ale,  hastily  took  off  his 
dressing-gown,  ])ut  on  a  kaftan  of  a  reddish  hue 
with  large  strass  buttons  ....  wound  a  neck- 
clotli  round  his  neck.  .  .  .  Vasily  watched  him. 
and  examined  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand. 

"  So  how  is  it  to  be^  Are  we  to  fight.  Pavel 
iXfanasievitch^   " 


'riIKJ:K    POHTKAITS 

"  If  wc  must  light,  we  must,"  —  returned  Ro- 
gatchyoff,  hastily  buttoning  his  waistcoat. 

"  Hey,  Pavel  Afanasievitch,  heed  my  advice: 
marry  ....  wliy  sliouldst  thou  not?  .  .  .  But 
1,  believe  me   .   .   .   .  " 

"  No,  \'asily  Ivanovitch,"  —  Kogatchyoft'  in- 
terruptetl  him.  "  Vou  will  either  kill  me  or  maim 
me,  I  know;  but  1  have  no  intention  of  losing 
my  honour;  if  T  must  die,  T  will." 

Kroshka  entered  and  hurriedly  handed  Ko- 
gatchyoff'  a  wretched  httle  old  sword,  in  a 
cracked,  leather  scabbard.  At  that  time  all 
nobles  wore  swords  when  they  had  j)owdered  liaii*; 
l)ut  the  nobles  of  the  steppes  only  ])owdered 
their  hair  a  couple  of  times  a  year.  Eroshka 
retreated  to  the  dooi*.  and  fell  to  weeping. 
Pavel  Afanasievitch  thrust  liim  out  of  the 
room. 

"  But,  Vasily  Ivanovitch,"  —  he  remarked,  with 
some  agitation,  — "  I  cannot  fight  with  you  in- 
stantly: ])ermit  me  to  defer  our  duel  until  to- 
morrow; my  father  is  not  at  home;  and  it  would 
not  be  a  bad  thing  to  })ut  my  affairs  in  order, 
in  case  of  a  catastrophe." 

"  I  see  that  you  are  beginning  to  quail  again, 
jjjy  dear  sir." 

"  Xo,  no,  Vasily  Ivanovitch;  but  judge  foi- 
yourself.  ..." 

"Listen!"  .  .  .  shouted  Lutchi'noff:  —  "you 
are  driving  me  out  of  patience.  .  .  .  Either  give 
me  vour  word   to  man-v   immcdiatelv,   or   tight 

111 


THKEE    rOKTKAlTS 

.  ...  or  I  will  trounce  you  with  a  cudgel,  like 
a  coward,  do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  park," — replied  Roga- 
tchyofF  between  his  teeth. 

But  suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  the  old 
nurse  Efimovna,  all  dishevelled,  forced  her  way 
into  the  room,  fell  on  her  knees  before  Roga- 
tchyofF  and  clasped  his  feet.  .  .  . 

"  IVIv  dear  little  father!  "  —  she  wailed:  — "  mv 
child  ....  what  is  this  thou  art  projecting? 
Do  not  ruin  us  miserable  ones,  dear  little  fa- 
ther! For  he  will  kill  thee,  my  dear  little  dove! 
But  only  give  us  the  command,  give  us  the 
command,  and  we  11  kill  that  insolent  fellow 
with  our  caps.  .  .  .  Pavel  Afanasievitch,  my  dar- 
ling child,  have  the  fear  of  God  before  thine 
eyes ! 

A  multitude  of  pale  and  agitated  faces  showed 
themselves  in  the  doorway  ....  the  red  beard 
of  the  Elder  even  made  its  appearance.  .  .  . 

"  Let  me  go,  Efimovna,  let  me  go!  " — mut- 
tered RogatchyofF. 

"  I  will  not  let  thee  go,  my  own  one,  I  will  not 
let  thee  go.  What  art  thou  doing,  dear  little 
father,  what  art  thou  doing:*  And  what  will 
Afanasv  Lukitch  say?  AVhv,  he  will  drive  all 
of  us  out  of  the  white  world.  .  .  .  And  why  do 
ye  stand  there?  Seize  the  unbidden  guest  by  the 
arms,  and  lead  him  forth  from  the  house,  that 
no  trace  of  him  may  remain.   .  .  ." 

U'2 


TIIKKK    POliTKAlTS 

"  Rogatcliyofi'!  "  —  shouted  Vasfly  Ivanovitch, 
menacingly. 

"  Thou  hast  gone  crazy,  Kfiniovna,  thou  art 
disgracing  nic,"  ....  said  Pavel  Afanasievitch. 
— "  Go  away,  go,  with  God's  blessing,  and  be- 
gone, all  of  you,  do  you  hear?  Do  you  hear? ..." 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  walked  swiftly  to  the  open 
window,  drew  out  a  small  silver  whistle,  and  whis- 
tled lightly.  .  .  .  Boursier  answered  close  at 
liand.  T^utchinoff*  immediately  turned  to  Pavel 
Afanasievitch. 

"  How  is  this  comedy  to  end?  " 

"  Vasilv  Ivanovitch,  I  will  come  to  you  to- 
morrow — what  am  I  to  do  with  tliis  crazy 
woman?  .  .  .  ." 

"  Eh!  I  see  that  it  is  useless  to  talk  long  with 
vou," — said  Vasilv,  and  swiftly  raised  his 
cane.  ... 

Pavel  Afanasievitcli  daslied  forward,  thrust 
aside  Efimovna,  seized  his  sword,  and  ruslied 
through  the  other  door  into  the  park. 

Vasily  dai-ted  after  him.  They  both  ran  to  a 
wooden  arbom*  artfully  ])ainted  in  the  Chinese 
manner,  locked  themselves  in,  and  l)ared  their 
swords.  Rogatchyoff  had  once  upon  a  time  taken 
lessons  in  fencing;  but  lie  barely  knew  how  to 
parry  properly.  The  blades  crossed.  A'^asily  was, 
evidently,  j)laying  with  Rogatcliy6ft"s  sword.  Pa- 
vel Afanasievitch  sighed,  turned  pale,  and  gazed 
with  consternation  into  liUlchinoff's  face.    In  the 


THREE    rOKTKAlTS 

nieunwhile,  cries  resounded  in  the  jxiik;  a  throng 
of  people  rushed  to  the  arhoui-.  Suddenly  Ro- 
gatchyoff'  heard  a  heart-rending,  senile  roar  .... 
lie  recognised  his  father's  voice.  ^Afaiuisy  Lii- 
kitch,  hatless.  and  with  dishevelled  locks,  was 
running  in  IVont  of  all,  waving  his  arms  de- 
spairingly  

\Vith  a  powerful  and  unex])ected  turn  of  his 
hlade,  A'asily  knocked  the  sword  from  Pavel 
Afanasievitch's  hand. 

"  Marry,  brother,"  —  he  said  to  him.  — "  Stop 
being  a  fool!  " 

"  I  will  not  marry!  "  —  whispered  RogatchyoiF, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  trembled  all  over. 

Afanasy  I^ukitch  began  to  pound  on  the  door 
of  the  arbour. 

"  Thou  wilt  not^  "  —  shouted  Vasily. 

RogatchyofF  shook  his  head  in  the  negative. 

"Well,  then,  the  devil  take  thee!" 

Poor  Pavel  xVfanasievitch  fell  dead:  l^utchi- 
nofF's  sword  liad  i)ierced  his  lieart.  .  .  .  The  door 
burst  oj)en,  old  Rogatchyoff  rushed  into  the  ar- 
boiu',  but  Vasily  had  already  managed  to  spring 
out  of  the  window.  .  . 

Two  liours  later,  he  entered  Olga  IvanoMia's 
room.  .  .  She  darted  to  meet  him  in  affright. 
.  .  .  He  silently  bowed  to  her,  di'ew  out  his  sword, 
and  pierced  Pjivel  Afanasievitcirs  ])orti'ait  at  tlie 
place  of  the  heart.  Olga  shrieked,  and  fell 
senseless   on    the   floor.   .   .   .   ^'asIly   directed    his 


1  nin:i:  poiM'KAi  IS 

steps  to  iVnna  Pavlovna.     He  found  her  in  the 
room  oi'  the  holy  pictures. 

■  Maiuriia."  -lie  said,     '"  we  are  avenged." 
The  pool'  old  woman  shuddered  and  went  on 
praying. 

A  week  later,  Vasily  took  his  departure  Tor 
Petersburg,  —  and  two  years  afterward  he  re- 
turned to  the  country,  crippled  with  paralysis, 
and  speechless.  He  no  longer  fovmd  either  Anna 
Pjivlovna  or  Olga  Ivanovna  alive,  and  soon  died 
himself  in  the  arms  of  Yiiditch,  who  fed  him  like 
a  baby,  and  was  the  only  person  who  could  un- 
derstand his  incoberent  babble. 


14.5 


THREE  MEETINGS 

(1851) 


THREE  MEETINGS 


Passa  quo'  colli  c  viciii  allcf^ramente; 
Noil  ti  curar  di  tanta  coiupania — 
Vieni  pensando  a  me  segretaniente — 
Ch'io  t' accompapna  y)er  tiitta  la  via.* 

DLJRIX(r  the  whole  course  of  the  summer, 
I  liail  gone  n-liunting  nowhere  so  frequently 
us  to  the  large  village  of  Glinnoe,  situated  twenty 
versts  from  my  hamlet.  In  the  environs  of  this 
village  there  are,  in  all  probability,  the  very  best 
haunts  of  game  in  all  our  county.  After  having 
tramped  through  all  the  adjacent  bush-plots  and 
fields,  I  invariablv,  toward  the  end  of  the  dav, 
turned  aside  into  the  neighbouring  marsh,  al- 
most the  only  one  in  the  countryside,  and  thence 
returned  to  my  cordial  host,  the  Elder  of  Glin- 
noe, with  whom  I  alw-ays  stopped.  It  is  not  more 
than  tw^o  versts  from  the  marsh  to  Glinnoe;  the 
entire  road  runs  through  a  valley,  and  only 
midway  of  the  distance  is  one  compelled  to  cross 
a  small  hillock.  On  the  crest  of  this  hillock  lies 
a  homestead,  consisting  of  one  uninhabited  little 

^  Pass  through  these  hills  and  come  cheerily  to  me:  care  thou  not 
for  too  great  a  company.  Come  thon,  and  think  secretly  of  mc,  that 
I  may  he  thy  comrade  all  the  way. 

149 


TIIKKK    MKKTIX(;S 

manor-house  and  a  garden.  It  almost  always 
happened  that  1  passed  it  at  the  very  acme  of  the 
sunset  glow,  and  I  reniemher,  that  on  every  such 
occasion,  this  house,  witli  its  hermeticallv-sealed 
windows,  apj)eared  to  nie  like  a  hlind  old  man 
who  had  come  forth  to  warm  himself  in  tlie 
sunlight.  He  is  sitting,  dear  man,  close  to  the 
highway;  the  splendour  of  the  sunlight  has  long 
since  been  superseded  for  him  by  eternal  gloom; 
but  he  feels  it,  at  least,  on  his  upturned  and  out- 
stretched face,  on  his  flushed  cheeks.  It  seemed 
as  though  no  one  had  lived  in  the  house  itself  for 
a  long  time;  but  in  a  tiny  detached  wing,  in 
the  courtyard,  hxlged  a  decrepit  man  who  had 
received  his  freedom,  tall,  stooping,  and  grey- 
haired,  with  expressive  and  impassive  features. 
He  was  always  sitting  on  a  bench  in  front  of  the 
wing's  solitary  little  window,  gazing  with  sad 
pensiveness  into  the  distance,  and  Avhen  he  caught 
sight  of  me,  he  rose  a  little  way  and  saluted,  with 
that  deliberate  gravity  wliich  distinguishes  old 
house-serfs  who  have  belonged  not  to  the  gen- 
eration of  our  fathers,  but  to  our  grandfathers. 
I  sometimes  entered  into  conversation  with  him, 
but  he  was  not  loquacious;  all  I  learned  from 
him  was  that  the  farm  on  which  he  dwelt  be- 
longed to  the  granddaugliter  of  his  old  master, 
a  widow,  who  had  a  younger  sister;  that  both  of 
them  lived  in  towns,  and  beyond  the  .sea,  and 
never  showed  themselves  at  home;  that  he  was 

150 


anxious  to  Hiiisli  his  life  as  speedily  as  possible, 
beeause  "  you  eat  and  eat  bread  so  that  you  get 
melancholy:  so  long  do  you  eat."  This  old  nuiirs 
name  was  Lukyanitch. 

One  day,  for  some  reason  or  other,  1  tarried 
long  in  the  fields;  a  very  fair  amount  of  game 
had  presented  itself,  and  the  day  had  turned  out 
fine  for  hunting — from  early  morning  it  had 
been  still  and  grey,  as  though  thoroughly  per- 
meated with  evening.  I  wandered  far  a-field,  and 
it  was  not  only  already  com])letely  dark,  but  the 
moon  had  risen  and  night  had  long  been  standing 
in  the  sky,  as  the  expression  runs,  when  I  reached 
the  familiar  farm.  I  had  to  pass  along  the  gar- 
den. .  .  All  around  lay  such  tranquillity.  .  . 

I  crossed  the  broad  road,  cautiously  made  my 
way  through  the  dusty  nettles,  and  leaned  against 
the  low,  wattled  hedge.^  iNIotionless  before  me 
lay  the  small  garden  all  illuminated  and,  as  it 
were,  soothed  to  stillness  by  the  silvery  rays  of 
the  moon, — all  fragrant  and  humid;  laid  out  in 
ancient  fashion,  it  consisted  of  a  single  oblong 
grass-plot.  Straight  paths  came  together  ex- 
actly in  tlie  centre,  in  a  circular  flower-bed, 
thickly  overgrown  with  asters;  tall  lindens  sur- 
rounded it  in  an  even  border.  In  one  spot  only 
was  this  border,  a  couple  of  fathoms  in  length, 
])roken,  and  through  the  gap  a  part  of  the  low- 

'  In  rentral  and  soiitliern   Russia  where  limber  is  searee,  fences, 
and  even  tlie  walls  of  barns  and  store-houses,  are  made  of  interlaced 

boughs.  —  TKANSLATOIt. 

151 


TIIHKK    MKETINGS 

roofed  liouse  was  visibk-.  nitli  two  windows 
lighted,  to  my  anuizenient.  Voung  apple-trees 
reared  themselves  here  and  there  over  tlie  mea- 
dow; atliwart  their  slender  branches  the  nocturnal 
sky  ffleamed  softlv  hhie,  and  the  dreamv  light 
of  the  moon  streamed  down:  in  front  of  each 
apple-tree,  on  the  whitening  grass,  lay  its  faint, 
mottled  shadow.  On  one  side  of  tlie  gai'den  the 
lindens  were  confusedly  green,  inundated  with 
motionless,  palely-brilliant  light:  on  the  other, 
they  stood  all  black  and  opa(]ue:  a  strange,  re- 
pressed rustling  arose  at  times  in  their  dense 
foliage;  they  seemed  to  be  calling  to  the  paths 
which  vanished  under  them,  as  though  luring 
them  beneath  their  dim  canopy.  The  whole  sky 
was  studded  with  stars;  mysteriously  did  their 
soft  blue  scintillations  stream  down  from  on  high ; 
they  seemed  to  be  gazing  with  (juiet  intentness 
at  the  distant  earth.  Small,  thin  clouds  now  and 
then  sailed  across  the  moon,  momentarily  con- 
verting its  tranquil  gleam  into  an  obscure  but 
luminous  mist.  .  .  .  K\erything  was  dreaming. 
The  air.  all  warm,  all  })ei*fumed.  did  not  even  vi- 
brate: it  oidy  shivered  now  and  then,  as  water 
shivers  when  disturbed  by  a  falling  bi-anch.  .  .  , 
One  was  conscious  of  a  certain  thirst,  a  certain 
swooning  in  it.  .  .  I  bent  over  the  fence:  a  wild 
scarlet  po])|)y  reai'cd  its  erect  little  stalk  bei'oi'c 
me  from  the  matted  grass:  a  lai'ge.  lound  droj) 
of  night  dew  glittered  with  a  dai-k  gleam  in  the 

].52 


lieait  ol'  I  lit'  open  blossom.  Kverything  was 
(Ircaniiiig;  everything  was  taking  its  ease  lux- 
uriously round  about;  everything  seemed  to  be 
gazing  u])ward,  stretching  itself  out,  motionless, 
expeetanl.  .  .  \Vhat  was  it  that  that  warm,  not 
yet  sleeping  nigiit,  was  waiting  for? 

It  was  waiting  for  a  sound;  tluit  sensiti\e  still- 
ness was  waiting  for  a  living  ^'()iee  —  but  every- 
thing maintained  silence.  The  nightingales  had 
long  since  ceased  their  song  .  .  .  and  the  sud- 
den booming  of  a  beetle  as  it  flew  past,  the  light 
smacking  of  a  tiny  fish  in  the  fish-pond  behind 
the  lindens  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  the  sleepy 
whistle  of  a  startled  bird,  a  distant  cry  in  the 
fields,  —  so  far  away  that  the  ear  could  not  dis- 
tinguish whether  it  was  a  man,  or  a  wild  animal, 
or  a  bird  which  had  uttered  it,  —  a  short,  brisk 
trampling  of  hoofs  on  the  road:  all  these  faint 
sounds,  these  rustlings,  only  rendered  the  still- 
ness more  profound.  .  .  jNIy  heart  yearned  within 
me,  with  an  indefinite  feeling,  akin  not  precisely 
to  expectation,  nor  yet  to  a  memory  of  hap])iness. 
I  dared  not  stir;  I  was  standing  motionless  be- 
fore this  motionless  garden  steeped  in  moon- 
light and  in  dew,  and,  without  myself  knowing- 
why,  was  staring  importunately  at  those  two 
windows,  which  shone  dindy  I'ed  in  the  soft 
half-darkness,  when  suddenlv  a  elioi'd  ran<>- 
out  of  the  house,  — rang  out  and  rolled  forth  in  a 
flood.  .  ,  .  The    irritatingly-resonant    air    thun- 

153 


rilKKK    MKF/ri\(iS 

dered  back  an  echo.   ...  I  gave  an  imolnntary 
start. 

Tlie  chord  was  followed  h\-  the  sonnd  of  a 
woman's  voice.  .  .  1  beoan  to  listen  eagerly  — 
and  .  .  .  can  1  ex])ress  my  amazement  C  .  .  . 
two  \-eai's  previonsly.  in  Italy,  at  Soi-rento,  I  had 
heard  lliat  seli'same  song,  that  selfsame  voice. 
•   •   •    \  es,   \  trs.   .   . 


''  .' 


"  \'ieni  pensando  a  nic  sefvretanientc  .    .    .*" 

It  was  they;  1  had  recognised  them;  those  were 
the  sonnds.  .  .  This  is  the  way  it  had  happened. 
1  was  returning  home  from  a  long  stroll  on  the 
seashore.  I  was  walking  swiftly  along  the  street ; 
night  had  long  since  descended,— a  magnificent 
night,  southern,  not  cahii  and  sadly -pensive  as 
with  us,  no!  but  all  radiant,  sumptuous,  and  very 
beautiful,  hke  a  happy  woman  in  her  bloom;  the 
moon  shone  with  incredible  brilliancy;  great,  ra- 
(hant  stars  fairly  throbbed  in  the  dark-blue  sky; 
the  black  shadows  were  sharply  defined  against 
the  around  illuminated  to  vellowness.  On  both 
sides  of  the  street  stretched  the  stone  walls  of 
gardens;  orange-trees  reared  above  them  their 
crooked  branches;  the  golden  globes  of  heavy 
fruit,  hidden  amidst  the  interlacing  leaves,  were 
now  barely  visible,  now  glowed  brightly,  as  they 
ostentatiously  disi)layed  themselves  in  the  moon- 
light. ( )n  many  trees  the  blossoms  shone  tenderly 
white;  the  air  was  all  imi)regnated  with  fragrance 

l.)4. 


THHKK    MKKTlXCiS 

laiiguisliiiigly  i)()\verful,  penetrating,  and  almost 
heavy,  althougli  inex])res.sil)ly  sweet. 

I  walked  on.  and,  1  must  confess,  —  having  al- 
ready l)eeome  aeeustomed  to  all  these  wonders, — 
1  was  thinking  only  of  how  I  might  most  speedily 
reach  my  inn,  when  suddenly,  from  a  small  pa- 
vilion, built  u])on  the  very  wall  of  a  garden  along 
which  1  was  passing,  a  woman's  voice  rang  out. 
It  was  singing  some  song  with  which  1  was  un- 
familiar, and  in  its  sounds  there  was  something 
so  winning,  it  seemed  so  permeated  with  the  pas- 
sion and  joyous  expectation  expressed  by  the 
words  of  the  song,  that  I  instantly  and  involvm- 
tarilv  halted,  and  raised  mv  head.  There  were 
two  windows  in  the  pavilion;  but  in  both  the 
Venetian  blinds  were  lowered,  and  through  their 
narrow  chinks  a  dull  light  barely  made  its  way. 

After  having  repeated  "  vieni,  vicni! "  twice, 
the  voice  became  silent;  the  faint  sound  of  strings 
was  audible,  as  though  of  a  guitar  which  had 
fallen  on  the  rug;  a  gown  rustled,  the  floor 
creaked  softly.  The  streaks  of  light  in  one  win- 
dow disai)peared.  .  .  Some  one  had  approached 
from  >vithin  and  leaned  against  it.  T  advanced 
a  couple  of  paces.  Suddenly  the  blind  clattered 
and  flew  open;  a  graceful  woman,  all  in  white, 
swiftly  thrust  her  lovely  head  from  the  window, 
and  stretching  out  her  arms  toward  me,  said: 
"  Sei  tu?  " 

1  was  disconcerted,  1  did  not  know  what  to  say: 


TiiuKK  .me>:tixgs 

but  at  tliat  same  inoment  tlie  Unknown  threw  lier- 
self  backward  with  a  faint  shriek,  the  bhnd 
shnnnied  to,  and  the  hght  in  the  ])avihon  grew 
still  nioi'e  dim.  as  though  it  iiad  been  carried  out 
into  another  room.  I  remained  motioidess,  and 
for  a  long  time  could  not  recover  mvself.  The 
face  of  the  woman  who  had  so  suddenly  })re- 
sented  itself  before  me  was  strikingly  beautiful. 
It  had  flashed  too  rapidly  before  my  eyes  to  per- 
mit of  my  immediately  recalling  each  indi^'idual 
feature;  but  the  general  impression  was  inde- 
scribably powerful  and  profound.  ...  I  felt 
then  and  there  that  1  should  never  forget  that 
countenance.  The  moon  fell  straight  on  the  wall 
of  the  pavilion,  on  the  window  whence  she  had 
shown  herself  to  me,  and,  great  heavens!  how 
magnificently  had  her  great,  dark  eyes  shone  in 
its  radiance!  In  what  a  heavy  flood  bad  her  half- 
loosened  black  hair  fallen  u})on  her  u])lifted, 
rounded  shoulders!  How  much  bashful  tender- 
ness there  had  been  in  the  soft  inclination  of  her 
form,  iiow  much  afl'ection  in  her  voice,  when  she 
had  called  lo  nie  in  that  hiu'ried.  bill  resonant 
\\his})ei'! 

After  standing  for  (juite  a  long  time  on  one 
spot,  1  at  last  ste})pe(l  a  little  aside,  into  the 
shadow  of  the  o})})osite  wall,  and  began  to  stare 
thence  at  the  pavilion  ^^■ith  a  sort  of  stupid  sur- 
])rise  and  antici])ation.  I  listened  ....  listened 
N\ith  strained  attention.  .   .   It  seemed  to  me  now 

156 


TTiKKK  Mi:K'n\(;s 

llial  1  licaid  some  one's  (jiiict  bicalliing  Ijehiiid 
the  darkened  Aviiidow,  now  a  rustle  and  quiet 
lau^liter.  At  last,  ste])s  resounded  in  the  dis- 
tanee  .  .  .  Ihey  eanie  neaici':  a  man  of  almost 
identieal  stature  with  myself  made  his  appeai'- 
anee  at  the  end  of  the  street,  hriskly  strode  uj) 
to  a  <4ate  directly  heneath  the  ])avili()n,  which  I 
had  not  previously  noticed,  knocked  twice  with 
its  iron  viw^,  without  looking  about  him,  waited 
a  little,  knocked  again,  and  hegan  to  sing  in  an 
undertone:  "  Kcco  ridcntc."  .  .  .  The  gate 
opened  .  .  .  he  slij)ped  noiselessly  through  it. 
I  stai'ted,  shook  my  head,  threw  my  hands  apai't, 
and  ])ulling  my  hat  morosely  down  on  my  brows, 
went  off  home  in  dis]:)leasure.  On  the  following 
day  I  vaiidy  paced  u])  and  down  that  street  for 
two  hours  in  the  very  hottest  part  of  the  day,  past 
the  pavilion,  and  that  same  evening  went  away 
from  Sorrento  without  even  having  visited 
Tasso's  house. 

The  reader  can  now  ])icture  to  himself  the 
amazement  which  suddenly  took  possession  of 
me,  when  T  heard  that  same  voice,  that  same  song, 
in  the  steppes,  in  one  of  the  most  remote  j^arts  of 
Russia.  .  .  .  Xow,  as  then,  it  was  night:  now, 
as  then,  the  voice  sudderdy  rang  out  from  a 
lighted,  uid'amiliar  room;  now,  as  then,  I  wa,s 
alone.  jNIy  heart  began  to  heat  violently  within 
me.  "  Is  not  this  a  dream?  "  I  thought.  And  lo! 
again  the  final  "  vieni! "  rang  out.  .  .  .  Can  it 

1,57 


THUKK  MKK/ri\c;s 

be  that  the  window  will  opeii^  Can  it  be  that 
the  woman  will  show  herself  in  it? — The  window 
opened.  In  the  window,  a  woman  showed  herself. 
I  instant Iv  recognised  her,  althouiih  a  distance 
of  fifty  ])aces  lay  between  us,  alt]ion<>'h  a  li^ht 
cloud  ()l)scurcd  the  moon.  It  was  she,  my  Un- 
known of  Sorrento. 

liut  she  did  not  stretch  forth  her  bare  arms 
as  before:  she  folded  them  quietly,  and  leaning 
them  on  the  window-sill,  began  to  gaz.e  silently 
and  immoval)ly  at  some  ])oint  in  the  garden.  Yes, 
it  was  she;  those  were  hei*  never-to-))e-forgotten 
features,  her  eyes,  the  like  of  which  I  had  never 
beheld.  Xow,  also,  an  ample  white  gown  en- 
folded her  limbs.  She  seemed  somewhat  plumper 
than  in  Sorrento.  Everything  about  exhaled  an 
atmosphere  of  the  confidence  and  repose  of  love, 
the  triuni))h  of  beauty,  of  cahn  happiness.  For 
a  long  time  she  did  not  stir,  then  she  cast  a 
glance  backward  into  the  room  and,  suddenly 
straightening  herself  up,  exclaimed  thrice,  in 
a  loud  and  ringing  voice:  "  Addio!  "  The  beau- 
tiful sounds  were  wafted  far,  far  away,  and  for 
a  long  time  they  (juivered,  growing  fainter  and 
dying  out  beneath  the  lindens  of  the  garden  and 
in  the  fields  behind  me,  and  everywhere.  Every- 
thing  around  me  was  filled  for  several  minutes 
with  the  voice  of  this  \voman,  everything  rang  in 
i-esponse  to  her,  —  rang  with  her.  She  shut  the 
window,  and  a  few  moments  later  the  light  in  the 
house  vanished. 

158 


As  soon  as  1  recovered  myself — and  this  was 
not  very  soon,  I  must  admit  —  1  immediately  di- 
rected my  course  alont>'  the  <>'ardeTi  of  the  manor, 
approached  the  closed  gate,  and  peered  tlirough 
tlie  wattled  fence.  Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary 
was  visible  in  the  courtyard;  in  one  corner,  under 
a  shed,  stood  a  calash.  Its  front  half,  all  bespat- 
tered with  dried  mud,  shone  out  sharply  white  in 
the  moonlight.  The  shutters  of  the  house  were 
closed,  as  hefore. 

1  have  foi-gotten  to  say,  that  for  about  a  week 
previous  to  that  day,  I  had  not  visited  Glinnoe. 
For  more  than  ludf  an  hour  I  paced  to  and  fro 
in  per])lexity  in  front  of*  the  fence,  so  that,  at  last, 
I  attracted  the  attention  of  the  old  watch-dog, 
which,  nevertheless,  did  not  begin  to  bark  at  me, 
but  merely  looked  at  me  from  under  the  gate 
in  a  remarkably  ironical  manner,  with  his  pur- 
blind little  eyes  puckered  up.  I  understood  his 
hint,  and  beat  a  retreat.  But  before  I  had  man- 
aged to  traverse  half  a  Acrst,  I  suddeidy  heard 
the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  behind  me.  ...  In 
a  few  minutes  a  rider,  mounted  on  a  black  horse, 
dashed  past  me  at  a  swift  trot,  and  swiftly  turn- 
ing to^^'ard  me  his  face,  ^^•here  I  could  descry 
nothing  save  an  aquihne  nose  and  a  very  hand- 
some moustache  under  his  military  cap,  which  was 
pulled  well  down  on  his  lirow,  turned  into  the 
right-hand  road,  and  immediately  vanished  be- 
hind the  forest. 

"  So  that  is  he,"  1  thought  to  myself,  and  my 

159 


heart  stirred  w  itiiiii  iiu'  in  a  strange  sort  of  way. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  recognised  liim;  his  figure 
really  did  suggest  the  figure  of  the  man  whom  T 
had  seen  enter  the  garden-gate  in  Sorrento.  Half 
an  hour  later  I  was  in  (ilinnoe  at  my  liost's,  had 
i-oused  him,  and  had  immediately  hegun  to  in- 
terrogate him  as  to  the  persons  who  had  arrived 
at  the  neighhouring  farm.  He  rephed  with  an 
effort  that  the  ladies  had  arrived. 

"  But  what  ladies?  " 

"  \Vhv,  everybody  knows  what  ladies,"  he  re- 
plied  \'ery  languidly. 

''  llnssians?  " 

"  What    else    should    they    be^  —  Russians,    of 
course." 

"  Not  foreigners?  " 

"Hey?" 

"  Have  they  been  here  long?  " 

"  Not  long,  of  course." 

"  And  have  they  come  to  stay  long?  " 

"  That  I  don't  know." 

"  xVre  they  wealthy?  " 

"  And  that,  too,  we  don't  know.    Perhaps  they 
are  wealthy." 

"  Did  not  a  gentleman  come  with  them?  " 

"  A  gentleman?  " 

"  Yes,  a  gentleman." 

The  Elder  sighed. 

"  O,   okh.   O   T^ord!"— he   ejaculated   with   a 
yawn.   ..."  X-n-o.  there  was  no  ....  gentle- 

160 


TiiHKE  mf;ktixc;s 

iiiaii,  1  think  tiic'ic  was  no  gentleman.     J   don't 
know!  "  —  he  snddenly  added. 

"  And  what  sort  of  otlier  neighbours  are  living 
here?  " 

"  What  sort?  everybody  knows  what  sort,  —  all 
sorts." 

"  All  sorts?— And  what  are  their  names?  " 

"  Wliose — the  lady  ]jroprietors'?  or  the  neigh- 
bours'? " 

"  The  lady  proprietors'." 

Again  the  Elder  yawned. 

"What  are  their  names?" — he  muttered. — 
"  AVhy,  (xod  knows  what  their  names  are!  The 
elder,  I  tliink,  is  named  Anna  P^eodorovna,  and 
the  other  ...  No,  I  don't  know  that  one's  name." 

"  AVell,  what    s  tlieir  surname,  at  least?" 
Their  surname?  " 

Yes,  their  surname,  tlieir  family  name." 
Their  family  name.  .  .  .   Yes.    Why,  as  God 
is  my  witness,  1  don't  know." 

"  Are  they  young?  " 

"Well,  no.    They  are  not." 

"  How  old  are  they,  then?  " 

"  AMiy,  the  youngest  must  be  over  forty." 

"  Thou  art  inventing  the  whole  of  this." 

The  Elder  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Well,  you  must  know  best.  But  1  don't 
know." 

"  Well,  thou  art  wonnd  u))  to  say  one  thing!  " 
—  I  exclaimed  w  ith  xexation. 


THKEE    MEETINGS 

Knowing,  by  experience,  that  there  i.s  no  i)()s- 
jsibihty  of  extracting  anything  lucid  from  a  Rus- 
sian man  when  once  he  undertakes  to  answer  in 
that  way  (and,  moreover,  my  host  had  only  just 
throw-n  himself  down  to  sleep,  and  swayed  for- 
ward slightly  before  every  answer,  opening  his 
eyes  widely  with  child-like  surprise,  and  with  dif- 
ficulty ungluing  his  lips,  smeared  with  the  honey 
of  the  first,  sweet  slumber),  —  I  gave  up  in  de- 
spair, and  declining  supper,  went  into  the  barn. 

I  could  not  get  to  sleep  for  a  long  time. 
"Who  is  sheT'  —  I  kept  incessantly  asking  my- 
self:— "  a  Russian?  If  a  Russian,  why  does  she 
speak  in  Italian  (  .  .  .  .  The  Elder  declares  that 
she  is  not  young.  .  .  .  Rut  he  's  lying-  •  •  •  And 
who  is  that  happy  man  ;f  .  .  Positively,  I  can  com- 
prehend nothing.  .  .  Rut  what  a  strange  adven- 
ture! Is  it  jDossible  that  thus,  twice  in  succes- 
sion   Rut  I  will  infallibly  find  out  who 

she  is.  and  why  she  has  come  hither."  .  .  .  Agi- 
tated by  such  disordered,  fragmentary  thoughts 
as  these,  I  fell  asleej)  late,  and  saw  strange 
visions.  .  .  .  X<)\\'  it  seems  to  me  tliat  1  am 
wandering  in  some  desert,  in  the  very  blaze  of 
noonday — and  suddenly,  I  behold  in  front  of 
me,  a  huge  spot  of  shadow  running  over  the  red- 
hot  yellow  sand.  .  .  1  raise  my  head — 't  is  she, 
my  beauty,  whisking  through  the  air,  all  white, 
with  long  white  wings,  and  beckoning  me  to 
her.     I  dart  after  her;  but  she  floats  on  lightly 

1()2 


i  IIKKK    MKKT1N(;S 

and  swil'll),  and  1  cannot  rise  from  the  ground, 
and  stretch  out  eager  hands  in  vain.  .  .  .  "  Ad- 
dlo!  "  slie  says  to  inc.  as  she  flies  away.—"  Why 
hast  thou  not  wings ^  .  .  ^Iddiof  '  .  *  .  .  ^Vnd 
lo,  from  all  sides,  'Addio!"  resounds.  Kvery 
grain  of  sand  shouts  and  squeaks  at  mc:  "  ^Id- 
dio!  "...  then  rings  out  in  an  intolerahle, 
piercing  trill.  .  .  1  hrush  it  aside,  as  T  would  a 
gnat,  1  seek  her  with  my  eyes  .  .  .  and  already 
she  has  hecome  a  cloud,  and  is  floating  upward 
softly  toward  the  sun;  the  sun  quivers,  rocks, 
laughs,  stretches  out  to  meet  her  long  golden 
threads,  and  now  those  threads  have  enmeshed 
her,  and  she  melts  into  them,  hut  T  shout  at  the 
top  of  my  lungs,  like  a  madman :  "  That  is  not 
the  sun,  that  is  not  the  sun,  that  is  an  Italian 
spider.  A\nio  gave  it  a  pass])ort  for  Russia?  I  '11 
show  him  up  for  what  he  is:  I  saw  him  stealing 
oranges  from  other  people's  gardens."  .  .  .  Then 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  walking  along  a  narrow 
mountain  path.  .  .  I  hurry  onward:  I  must  get 
somewhere  or  other  as  (juickly  as  possihle,  some 
nnheard-of  lui])piness  is  awaiting  me.  Suddenly 
a  vast  cliff  rears  itself  up  in  front  of  me.  I  seek  a 
passage;  I  go  to  the  right,  I  go  to  the  left  — 
there  is  no  passage!  And  now  hehind  the  cliff  a 
voice  suddenly  rings  out:  "  Passa,  j)assa  quel 
colli."  ...  It  is  calling  me,  that  voice;  it  re- 
))eats  its  mournful  summons.  I  fling  myself 
ahout  in  anguish,  I  seek  even  the  smallest  cleft. 

163 


.  .  .  ^Vlas!  tilt'  cliti'  is  jK*rj)(.'iuli('ular,  there  is 
granite  evervwliere.  ..."  Passu  (/uci  colli ."  wails 
the  voice  again.  My  heart  aches,  and  I  luirl  my 
breast  against  the  smooth  stone:  1  scratch  it  with 
my  nails,  in  my  IVenzy.  .  .  .  A  dark  ))as.sage 
suddenly  o]>ens  before  me.  .  .  Swooning  with 
iov.  I  dash  forward.  .  .  '"  Nonsense!  "  some  one 
cries  to  me:  — "  thou  shalt  not  pass  through."  .  . 
I  look:  Lukvtinitch  is  stan(bng  in  front  of  me 
and  threatening,  and  brandishing  his  arms.  .  .  I 
hastily  fumble  in  my  pockets:  I  want  to  bribe 
him;  but  there  is  nothing  in  my  pockets.  .  .  . 

"  Lukyanitch,"  —  I  say  to  him. — "  let  me  pass: 
I  will  reward  thee  afterward.  " 

"  You  are  mistaken,  signor,"  Lukyanitch  re- 
plies to  me,  and  his  face  assumes  a  strange  ex- 
pression:— "  I  am  not  a  house-serf:  recognise  in 
me  Don  Quixote  de  I>,a  ^Mancha,  the  famous  wan- 
dering knight;  all  my  life  long  I  have  been  seek- 
ing my  Dulcinea  —  and  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find  her,  and  I  will  not  tolerate  it.  that  you  shall 
find  yours." 

"  Passa  f/uci  colli  "  .  .  .  .  rings  out  again  the 
almost  sobbing  voice. 

"  Stand  aside,  signor!  "  —  I  shout  wrathfully, 
and  am  on  the  point  of  j)reci])itating  myself  for- 
ward .  .  .  but  the  knight's  long  spear  wounds 
me  in  the  very  heart.  .  .  I  fall  dead,  .  .  I  lie 
on  my  back.  .  .  I  cannot  move  .  .  .  and  lo,  I 
see  that  she  is  coming  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand, 

10  J. 


TITKEK    MKKT1X(;S 

aiul  elevating  it  with  a  fine  gesture  above  iier 
head,  she  ^^eers  about  her  in  the  gloom,  and  creep- 
ing cautiously  up,  bends  over  me.  .  . 

"  So  this  is  he,  that  jester!  "  she  says  with  a  dis- 
dainful laugh.  —  "  This  is  he  who  wanted  to  know 
wlio  I  am!  "  and  the  hot  oil  from  her  lanij)  drips 
straight  upon  my  wounded  heart.  .  . 

"Psyche!"  —  I  exclaim  with  an  effort,  and 
awake. 

All  night  long  1  slept  badly  and  was  afoot  be- 
fore daybreak.  Hastily  dressing  and  arming 
myself,  I  Avended  my  A\ay  straight  to  the  manor. 
My  impatience  w'as  so  great  that  the  diiwu  liad 
only  just  begun  to  flush  the  sky  when  I  reached 
the  familiar  gate.  Round  me  the  larks  were  sing- 
ing, the  daws  were  cawing  on  the  birches;  but  in 
the  house  evervthinir  was  still  buried  in  death- 
like  matutinal  slumber.  Kven  the  dog  was 
snoring  behind  the  fence.  With  the  anguish 
of  expectation,  exasperated  almost  to  the 
point  of  wrath.  1  paced  to  and  fro  on  the 
dewy  grass,  and  kept  casting  incessant  glances 
at  the  low-i'oofed  and  ill-favoured  little  house 
which  contained  within  its  walls  that  mysterious 
being.   .   .   . 

Suddenly  the  wickel-gatf  creaked  faintly, 
opened,  and  Lukyanitch  made  his  appearance 
on  the  threshold,  in  some  sort  of  strii)e(l  kazak 
coat.  His  bristling,  loiig-drawn  face  seemed  to 
me  more  surly  tha?i  e\'ei-.    (ia/.ing  at  nie  not  w  itli- 


a 
(( 

a 


THREE    .MEETINGS 

out  siiri)ri.sc.  lie  was  on  tlic  j)oiiit  of  sluiltiug  the 
wicket  a^ain. 

"  ^ly  good  fello\\-,  my  good  I'ellow!  "  —  1  cried 
hastily. 

"  What  do  you  want  at  such  an  earlv  hour?  "  — 
he  returned  slowly  and  dully. 

"  Tell  nie,  please,  they  say  that  your  mistress 
has  arrived?  " 

Lukyanitch  made  no  reply  for  a  while. 
She  has  arrived.  .  ." 
Alone?" 
With  her  sister." 

"  Were  there  not  guests  with  ^'ou  last  night?  " 

"  Xo." 

And  he  drew  the  wicket  toward  him. 

"  Stay,  stay,  mv  dear  fellow.   .  .  .  Do  me  a 
favour.  ..." 

Lukyiinitch  coughed  and  shivered  with  cold. 

"  But  what  is  it  you  want?  " 

"  Tell  me,  please,  how  old  is  your  mistress?  " 

Lukyanitch    darted     a    suspicious    glance    at 
me. 

"  How  old  is  the  mistress?    I  don't  know.     She 
must  he  over  forty." 

"  i)\vv  forty!     And  how  old  is  her  sister?  " 

"  \\'hy,  she  's  in  the  neighhourhood  of  foi'ty." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  And  is  she  good-looking?  " 

"  AVlio,  the  sister?  " 

"  Yvs.  tlie  sister." 


1  .iikvanitch  grinned. 


1(56 


TTT]n:K  Mi:Kri\(;s 

"  1  (loiTt  know;  tliat  \s  as  a  person  f'aiR-ics.     In 
my  o})ini()n,  she  is  n't  eoinelv." 
'"Ilcnvsor' 

"  Heeause— she  \s  very  ill-favoured.  ^V  hit 
puny." 

"You  don't  say  so!  And  has  no  one  exeej)t 
them  come  hither?  " 

"  No  one.    Who  should  eome  ?  " 

"  But  that  eannot  he!  ...   I  ...  ." 

"Eh,  master!  there  's  no  end  of  talking  with 
you,  apparently,"— retorted  the  old  man  with 
vexation.  —  "  Whew,  how  cold  it  is!     Good-bye." 

"  Stay,  stay  ....  here  's  something  for 
thee.  .  .  ."  And  I  held  out  to  him  a  quarter  of 
a  ruble  which  I  had  prepared  beforehand:  l)ut 
my  hand  came  into  contact  -with  the  swiftly 
banged  ^^'icket-gate.  The  silver  coin  fell  to  the 
ground,  rolled  away,  and  lay  at  my  feet. 

"Ah,  thou  old  rascal!"  — I  thought— "  Don 
Quixote  de  La  ^Nlancha !  Evidently,  thou  hast  re- 
ceived orders  to  jiold  thy  tongue.  ,  .  .  But  wait, 
thou  shalt  not  trick  me."  .  .  . 

1  promised  myself  tliat  I  would  elucidate  the 
matter,  at  any  cost.  For  about  half  an  honi-  I 
paced  to  and  fro,  without  knowing  what  decision 
to  adopt.  At  last  I  made  up  my  mind  first  to 
inquire  in  the  village,  precisely  who  had  arrived 
at  the  manor,  and  who  she  was,  then  to  return, 
and,  as  the  saying  runs,  not  desist  until  the  matter 
was  cleared  up. — And  if  the  Unknown  should 

167 


come  out  of  the  house,  I  would,  at  last,  see  her  by 
daylight,  near  at  hand,  like  a  living  woman,  not 
like  a  vision. 

It  was  about  a  verst  to  the  village,  and  I  imme- 
diately betook  myself  thither.  ste})ping  out  lightly 
and  alei'tly:  a  strange  aiidaeity  was  seething  and 
sparkling  in  my  blood:  the  invigorating  fresh- 
ness of  the  morning  excited  me  after  the  uneasy 
night.- — In  the  village  I  learned  from  two  peas- 
ants, who  were  on  their  way  to  their  work,  every- 
thing' which  I  could  learn  from  them;  namely: 
I  learned  that  the  manoi-,  together  with  the  village 
which  I  had  entered,  was  called  iNIikhailovskoe, 
that  it  belonged  to  the  widow  of  a  Major,  Anna 
Feodorovna  Shlykoff ;  that  she  had  with  her  her 
sister,  an  unmarried  woman,  Pelageya  Feodo- 
rovna BadaefF  by  name;  that  both  of  them  were 
advanced  in  years,  were  wealthy,  hardly  ever  lived 
at  home,  were  always  travelling  about,  kept  no 
one  in  attendance  on  them  exce])t  two  female 
domestic  serfs  and  a  male  cook;  that  Anna  Feo- 
dorovna had  recently  retiu'ned  from  Moscow  with 
no  one  but  her  sister.  .  .  .  This  last  circum- 
stance greatly  pertui'bed  me:  it  was  im])ossible 
to  assume  that  the  ])easants  also  had  been  com- 
manded to  hold  their  peace  about  my  Unknown. 
But  it  was  utterly  impossible  to  concede  that 
Anna  Feodorovna  ShlykofF,  a  widow  of  five-and- 
forty,  and  that  young,  charming  woman,  whom 
I  had  seen  on  the  previous  evening,  were  one  and 

168 


TITKKK    MEKTINGS 

llic  same  person.  Pelageya  Feodoroviia,  .judg- 
ing from  the  deseription,  was  not  distiiiguislied 
for  her  beauty  either,  and,  in  addition  to  tliat, 
at  the  mere  tliouyht  tliat  the  woman  whom  I  had 
seen  at  Sorrento  eon  Id  l)ear  the  name  of  Pelageya, 
and  still  more  of  Badaeff ,  I  shrugged  my  shoul- 
ders and  laughed  maliciously.  And  neverthe- 
less, I  had  beheld  her  the  night  before  in  that 
liouse.  ...  I  had  beheld  her,  beheld  lier  witli 
my  own  eyes,  I  reflected.  Irritated,  enraged,  l)ut 
still  more  inclined  to  stand  b}^  mj^  intention,  1 
would  have  liked  to  return  at  once  to  the  manor 
.  .  .  .  but  glanced  at  my  watch;  it  was  not  yet 
six  o'clock.  I  decided  to  wait  a  while.  Kvery 
one  was  still  asleej)  at  tlie  farm,  in  all  i)r()])a])ility 
.  .  .  and  to  prowl  about  the  Iiouse  at  sucli  an  liour 
would  only  serve  to  arouse  ininecessary  sus])ici<)n  ; 
and  besides,  in  front  of  me  stretclied  buslies,  and 
beyond  them  an  aspen  M'ood  was  \'isible.   .  . 

I  must  do  myself  the  justice  to  say,  tliat,  not- 
withstanding the  thouglits  wliich  were  exciting 
me,  the  noble  })assion  for  the  hunt  liad  not  yet 
grown  wholly  mute  within  me;  "  perchance,"  I 
thought, — "  I  sliall  hit  u])on  a  covey,  —  and  that 
will  serve  to  pass  away  the  time."  I  entered  the 
bushes.  But,  truth  to  tell,  I  walked  in  a  very 
careless  way,  quite  out  of  consonance  with  the 
rules  of  the  art:  I  did  not  follow  my  dog  con- 
stantly witli  my  eyes,  I  did  not  snort  over  a 
thick  bush,  in  the  hope  that  a  red-browed  black 


THREE    .MEETINGS 

.siiii)e  would  fly  thence  with  a  whin"  ami  a  crash, 
l)iit  kept  incessantly  looking  at  my  watch,  whicli 
never  serves  any  pin'pose  whatsoever.  And,  at 
last,  it  was  going  on  nine.  —  "  'T  is  time!  "  I  ex- 
claimed aloud,  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning- 
hack  to  the  manor,  when  suddenlv  a  huge  hlack 
^^■oodcock  actually  did  hegin  to  flutter  out  of 
the  thick  grass  a  couple  of  paces  from  me.  I 
fired  at  the  magnificent  hird,  and  wounded  it 
under  the  wing;  it  almost  fell  to  the  ground,  hut 
recovered  itself,  started  off,  fluttering  its  wings 
swiftly  and,  diving  toward  the  wood,  tried  to  soar 
ahove  the  first  aspens  on  the  edge,  hut  its  strength 
failed,  and  it  rolled  licadlong  into  the  tliicket.  It 
would  have  heen  utterly  unpardonahle  to  ahandon 
sucli  a  prize.  I  strode  hriskly  after  it.  entered 
the  forest,  made  a  sign  to  Dianka,  and  a  few 
moments  later  I  heard  a  feehle  clucking  and 
flapping;  it  was  tlie  unlucky  woodcock,  strug- 
gling under  the  paws  of  my  quick-scented  liouud. 
1  picked  it  up,  put  it  in  my  game-hag,  glanced 
round,  and  — remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  as  it 
were.  .  .  . 

The  forest  wliich  I  liad  entered  was  very  dense 
and  wild,  so  that  I  had  with  (hfhculty  made  my 
way  to  the  spot  wliere  the  hii'd  had  fallen:  hut 
at  a  short  distance  from  me  wound  a  cart-road, 
and  along  this  road  wei-c  riding  on  liorsehack 
iii\  heauty  and  the  man  who  had  ()^crtaken  me 
')ii    the   night    heforc:    I    ix'cogniscd    hiiu    by    his 

170 


'IMIKKK   MKi</ri\(;s 

nioustuehe.  They  were  riding  softly,  in  silence, 
holding  each  other  by  the  hand;  their  horses  were 
barely  ])ntting  one  foot  before  the  other,  lazily 
swaying  from  side  to  side  and  handsonieh' 
stretching  out  their  long  necks.  \Vhen  1  had 
recovered  from  my  first  alarm  .  .  .  ])recisely 
tliat,  alarm:  I  can  give  no  other  a])pellation  to 
the  feeling  which  suddenly  seized  upon  me.  .  .  . 
I  fairly  bored  into  her  with  my  eyes.  How  beau- 
tiful she  was!  how  enchantingly  her  graceful 
form  moved  toward  me  amid  the  emerald  green! 
Soft  shadows,  tender  reflections  glided  over  hei- 
—  ovei"  her  long  grey  habit,  over  her  slender, 
slightly-bent  neck,  over  her  faintly-rosy  face,  over 
her  glossy  black  hair,  which  escaped  luxuriantly 
from  under  her  loA\-crowned  liat.  But  how  shall 
1  transmit  that  expression  of  utter,  passionate 
bliss  of  a  person  passionate  to  the  point  of 
s])eechlessness,  \\hich  breathed  forth  from  her 
features^  Her  head  seemed  to  be  bending  be- 
neath the  burden  of  it ;  moist,  golden  sparks  glit- 
tered in  her  dark  eyes,  \\hich  were  half-concealed 
by  her  eyelashes;  they  gazed  nowhere,  those  ha])])y 
eyes,  and  the  slender  brows  drooped  over  them. 
An  irresolute,  child-like  smile  —  the  smile  of  pro- 
found happiness,  strayed  over  her  lips;  it  seemed 
as  though  excess  of  ha])piness  had  wearied  and 
even  broken  her  a  little,  as  a  flower  in  full  bloom 
sometimes  breaks  its  own  stem.  Both  her  hands 
lay  ]X)werless:  one,  in  the  hand  of  the  man  who 

171 


TUHKK    MKKTIX(;S 

was  riding  by  her  side,  the  other  on  her  horse's 
mane. 

I  succeeded  in  getting  a  good  look  at  her 
—  and  at  him  also.  ,  .  .  He  was  a  handsome, 
stately  man,  with  an  un-]{ussian  face.  He  was 
gazing  at  her  boldly  and  merrily,  and,  so  far 
as  I  was  able  to  observe,  was  admiring  her  not 
\\ithout  secret  pride.  He  was  admiring  her,  the 
villain,  and  was  very  well-satisfied  with  himself, 
and  not  sufficiently  touched,  not  sufficiently 
moved,  — precisely  that,  moved.  .  .  And,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  what  man  does  deserve  sucli  devotion, 
what  soul,  even  the  most  beautiful,  is  worthy  of 
furnishing  another  soul  such  hap])iness?  I  must 
sav,  that  I  was  envious  of  him!  ....  In  the 
meantime,  they  had  both  arrived  on  a  level  with 
me  .  .  .  mv  dog  suddenlv  bounded  out  into  the 
road  and  began  to  bark.  ]My  Unknown  started, 
cast  a  swift  glance  around  and,  catching  sight 
of  me,  dealt  her  steed  a  violent  blow  on  the 
neck  with  her  whi]).  The  horse  snorted,  reared 
up  on  his  hind  legs,  threw  both  his  hoofs  forward 
simultaneously,  and  dashed  off  at  a  gallop.  .  .  . 
The  man  immediately  gave  the  spur  to  his  black 
horse,  and  when  I  emerged  by  the  road  into  the 
])order  of  the  forest  a  few  moments  later,  both 
of  them  were  already  galloj)ing  off  into  the 
golden  distance,  across  the  fields,  rising  smartly 
and  regulaily  in  theii-  saddles  .  .  .  and  were  not 
galloping  in  tlic  direction  of  tlic  farm.   .   .   . 

172 


TUKKE    MEETINGS 

I  gazed.  .  .  .  They  speedily  disappeared  be- 
hind a  hilloek,  brilliantly  illuminated  for  the  last 
time  by  the  sun  against  the  dark  line  of  the  hori- 
zon. I  stood,  and  stood,  then  returned  with  slow 
ste})s  to  the  forest  and  sat  down  on  the  })ath, 
eovering  mv  eves  with  mv  hand.  — I  have  ob- 
served  that  after  meeting  strangers,  all  that  is 
necessary  is  to  close  the  eyes — and  their  features 
immediately  start  up  before  you;  any  one  can 
verify  mv  observation  on  the  street.  The  m(n-e 
familiar  the  faces,  the  more  difficult  is  it  for  them 
to  present  themselves,  the  more  indefinite  is  their 
impression;  you  recall  them,  but  you  do  not  see 
them,  ....  and  you  can  never  possibly  picture 
to  yourself  your  own  face.  .  .  .  The  very  mi- 
nutest  separate  featin-e  is  known  to  you,  but  the 
entire  image  will  not  constitute  itself.  So  then, 
I  sat  down,  closed  my  eyes — and  inmiediately 
beheld  the  Unknown  and  her  companion,  and 
their  horses,  and  everything.  .  .  .  The  man's 
smiling  countenance  stood  before  me  ^\'ith  par- 
ticular sharpness  and  distinctness.  I  began  to 
stare  intently  at  it  ...  it  became  confused,  and 
dissolved  into  a  sort  of  crimson  mist,  and  after 
it,  lur  image  also  floated  away  and  sank,  and 
would  not  return. 

''Well,  never  mind!"-I  thought;  — "at  all 
events,  I  have  seen  them,  seen  them  both  clearly. 
.  .  .  It  remains  for  me  no\\'  to  find  out  flieir 
names."      Endeavoui*    to    lind    out    their    luuiies! 

173 


THREE    MEETINGS 

A\'liat  ill-judged,  petty  curiosity!  Rut  I  swear 
that  it  was  not  curiosity  which  had  Hanied  up  in 
nie.  In  truth,  it  simply  seemed  to  me  impossible 
not  to  discover,  eventually,  ^^•llo  they  were,  after 
accident  had  so  strangely  and  so  persistently 
brought  us  together.  Moreover,  my  former  im- 
patient perplexity  no  longer  existed;  it  had  been 
replaced  by  a  certain  confused,  sorrowful  feeling, 
of  A\hich  I  was  somewhat  ashamed.  ...  I  was 
jealous.   .  .  . 

I  did  not  hasten  back  to  the  farm.  I  nmst 
confess  that  I  had  become  ashamed  to  pry  into 
the  secrets  of  others.  Moreover,  the  appearance 
of  the  fond  pair  by  daylight,  in  the  light  of  the 
sun,  although  it  was  unexpected  and,  I  repeat, 
strange,  had  not  exactly  soothed,  but  chilled  me. 
I  no  longer  found  anything  supernatural,  mirac- 
ulous in  this  occurrence  ....  nothing  resem- 
bling an  impossible  dream.   .  .   . 

I  began  to  hunt  again  with  greater  assiduity 
than  before;  but  still,  there  were  no  genuine  rap- 
tures. 1  hit  upon  a  covey,  which  engaged  my 
attention  for  an  hour  and  a  half.  .  .  The  young 
|)artridges  did  not  res])ond  to  my  whistle  for  a 
long  time,  —  probably  because  I  did  not  whistle 
with  sufficient  "  objectivity." — The  siui  had  al- 
ready risen  quite  high  (my  watch  indicated  twelve 
o'clock),  when  I  directed  my  steps  toward  the 
manor.  I  walked  witliout  haste.  Vonder,  at  last, 
I  lie  low-roofed  little  house  peeped  forth  I'rom  its 


T  H  RE  K    >  I K  K 1 1 X  C  i  S 

hill.  I  approached  ....  and  not  witliout 
secret  satisfaction  beheld  Lukyanitcli.  As  of 
yore,  he  was  sitting  motionless  on  the  bench  in 
front  of  the  wing.  The  gate  was  closed— also 
the  sliutters. 

"Good  morning,  uncle!"  —  I  shouted  to  him 
from  afar.  — "  Hast  thou  come  out  to  warm  thy- 
self^ " 

Lukyanitcli  turned  his  gaunt  face  toward  me 
and  silently  doffed  his  cap. 

I  went  up  to  him. 

"  Good  morning,  uncle,  good  morning,"  —  I 
repeated,  wishing  to  encourage  him.  — "  Whj^" 
—  I  added,  unexpectedly  descrying  my  <|uar- 
terruble  on  the  ground,  — "  didst  not  thou  see 
it?" 

And  I  pointed  out  to  him  the  silver  circle,  half 
peeping  from  beneath  the  short  grass. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it." 

"  Then  whj^  didst  thou  not  pick  it  up?  " 

"  Because  it  was  n't  mv  money,  so  I  did  n't 
pick  it  up." 

"What  a  fellow  thou  art,  brother!"  —  I  re- 
turned, not  witliout  embarrassment,  and  picking 
up  the  coin,  I  offered  it  to  him  again.  — "  Take 
it,  take  it,  for  tea." 

"  Much  obliged,"  — Lukyanitch  answered  me, 
^vith  a  com])osed  smile.  — "  It  is  n't  necessary;  I  'II 
manage  to  i)ull  through  ^^■ithout  it.  JNIucli 
obliged." 

175 


TIIKEE    MEETINGS 

"  But  I  am  ready  to  give  you  still  more,  with 
pleasure!  "—I  replied  in  confusion. 

"  What  for?  Please  don't  disturb  yourself— 
much  obliged  for  your  good-will,  but  we  still  have 
a  crust  of  bread.  And  ])erha])s  we  sha'n't  eat 
that  up— that  's  as  it  may  happen." 

And  he  rose,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  the  wicket- 
gate. 

"  Stay,  stay,  old  man,"  — I  began,  ahiiost  in 
desperation;  —  "how  unconmmnicative  thou  art 
to-day,  really.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  at  least,  has  your 
mistress  risen  j^et?  " 

"  She  has." 

"  And  ....  is  she  at  home?  " 

"  No,  she  's  not  at  home." 

"  Has  she  gone  off  on  a  visit,  pray? " 

"  No,  sir:  she  has  gone  to  Moscow." 

"To  Moscow!  How  is  that?  Why,  she  was 
here  this  morning!  " 

"  She  was." 

"  And  she  passed  the  night  here?  " 

"  She  did." 

"  And  she  came  hither  recently?  " 
1  cs. 

"  AVhat  next,  my  good  man?  " 

"  \Vhy,  this:  it  must  be  about  an  Jiour  since 
she  deigned  to  start  back  to  Moscow." 

"  To  ]Mosco>\'!  " 

I  stared  in  petrificatio?!  at  Lukyjinitch:  I  had 
not  expected  this,  I  admit. 

17G 


THHKK    MKKTINCiS 

Lukyjiniteh  stared  at  inc.  ...  A  crafty,  senile 
smile  distended  liis  withered  lips  and  almost 
beamed  in  liis  melancholy  eyes. 

"And  did  she  go  away  with  her  sister?"  —  I 
said  at  last. 
\  es. 

"  So  that  now  there  is  no  one  in  the  honse?  " 
A'o  one.   .  .  . 

"  This  old  man  is  deceiving  me," — flashed 
throngh  my  head.  —  "  'T  is  not  without  cause  that 
he  is  grinning  so  craftily.  — Listen,  Lukyanitch," 
—  I  said  aloud;  — "dost  wish  to  do  me  one  fa- 
vour? " 

"  What  is  it  you  wish?  "—he  enunciated  slowly, 
evidently  beginning  to  feel  annoyed  by  my  ques- 
tions. 

"  Thou  sayest  that  there  is  no  one  in  the  house; 
canst  thou  show  it  to  me?  I  should  be  very  grate- 
ful to  thee." 

"  That  is,  you  want  to  inspect  the  rooms?  " 

"  Yes,  the  rooms." 

Lukyanitch  remained  silent  for  a  space. 

"  Very  well,"  —  he  said  at  last.  — "  Pray,  en- 
ter.  .  .  ." 

And  bending  down,  he  stepped  across  the 
threshold  of  the  wicket-gate.  I  followed  him. 
After  traversing  a  tiny  courtyard,  we  ascended 
the  tottering  steps  of  the  porch.  The  old  man  gave 
the  door  a  push;  there  was  no  lock  on  it:  a  cord 
with  a  knot  stuck  out  through  the  key-hole.  .  .  . 

177 


rilHKK    MKKTlXCiS 

\A'e  entered  the  lioiise.  It  consisted  in  all  of  live  oi* 
six  low-ceiled  rooms,  and.  so  far  as  I  could  make 
out  in  tile  fainl  li^iit.  whieli  streamed  sparsely 
through  the  rifts  in  the  shutters,  the  furniture  in 
these  rooms  was  extremely  phiin  and  decrepit. 
In  one  of  them  (namely,  in  the  one  which  o])ened 
on  the  o-arden)  stood  a  small,  anticjuated  i)iano. 
...  I  raised  its  warj)ed  lid  and  struck  the  keys: 
a  shrill,  hissin"-  sound  ran""  out  and  died  feeblv 
away,  as  thou<»h  complaining  of  my  audacity. 
It  was  impossible  to  discern  from  anythint^  that 
peo])le  had  recently  left  the  house;  it  had  a  dead 
and  stifling  sort  of  smell  —  the  odovn-  of  an  unin- 
habited dwelling;  here  and  there,  indeed,  a  dis- 
carded paper  gave  one  to  understand,  by  its 
whiteness,  that  it  had  been  dropped  there  recently. 
I  picked  uy>  one  such  bit  of  paper;  it  proved  to  be 
a  sera])  of  a  letter;  on  one  side  in  a  dashing 
feminine  handwriting  wei-e  scrawled  the  woi'ds 
^'  se  tain?  "  on  the  other  I  made  out  the  word 
"  honhcur."  .  .  .  On  a  small  round  table  near  the 
window  stood  a  nosegay  of  half- faded  flowers 
in  a  glass,  and  a  g]-een.  rumpled  i-ibbon  was  lying 
there  also  ....  I  took  that  ribbon  as  a  somenir. 
—  Lukyanitch  ojjcned  a  narrow  door,  pasted  over 
with  Avall-])aper. 

"  Here,"  —  said  he,  extending  his  hand:  —  "  this 
here  is  the  bedroom,  and  vonder,  beyond  it.  is 
the  room  for  the  maids,  and  there  are  no  other 
chambers.   .   .   ." 

178 


rilKKK    .MKKTIXGS 

W'c  rttuniLd  by  way  of  tlic  corridor.  -  "  iViid 
what  room  is  that  yonder?  "  —  I  asked,  pointing 
at  a  broad,  white  door  with  a  lock. 

"  That?  "  —  Lukj'iinitch  answered  me,  in  a  dull 
voice.  —  "  That  's  notliing." 

"How  so?" 

"  Because.  .  .  .  'T  is  a  store-room.  .  ."  And 
lie  started  to  go  into  the  anteroom. 

"A  store-room?     Cannot  1  look  at  it?"  .   .  . 

"  What  makes  you  want  to  do  that,  master, 
really?  !"  —  replied  liukyanitch  with  displeasure. 

—  "What  is  there  for  you  to  look  at?  Chests, 
old  Crocker}'  .  .  .  't  is  a  store-room,  and  nothing 
more.  .  .  ." 

"  i\ll  the  same,  show  it  to  me,  please,  old  man," 

—  I  said,  although  I  was  inwardly  ashamed  of  my 
indecent  persistence.  — "  1  should  like,  3'^ou  sec 
....  I  should  like  to  have  just  such  a  house  my- 
self at  home,  in  mv  village  .  .  .  ." 

I  was  ashamed:  I  could  not  c()m])lete  the  sen- 
tence 1  had  begun. 

Lukvaiiitch  stood  with  his  grev  head  bent  on 
liis  breast,  and  stared  at  me  askance  in  a  strange 
soi't  of  waj'. 

"  Show  it,"  —  1  said. 

"  Well,  as  you  like."  — he  replied  at  last,  got 
the  key,  and  reluctant! v  opened  the  door. 

I  fflanced  into  the  store-room.  Tliere  reallv 
was  notliing  noteworthy  about  it.  On  the  walls 
hung   old    portraits   with    gloomy,   almost    black 

179 


TllKEK    MKKllXCiS 

countenances,  and  vicious  eyes.  The  floor  was 
strewn  with  all  sorts  of  rubbish. 

"  Well,  have  you  seen  all  vou  want?  "  —  asked 
Lukyanitch,  gruffly. 

"  Yes;  thanks!  "  —  1  hastily  replied. 

He  slammed  to  the  door.  I  went  out  into  the 
anteroom,  and  from  the  anteroom  into  the  court- 
yard. 

Lukyanitch  escorted  me,  muttering:  "  Good- 
bye, sir!  "  and  went  off  to  his  own  wing. 

"  But  who  was  the  lady  visitor  at  your  house 
last  night?  "  —  I  called  after  him:  — "  I  met  her 
this  morning  in  the  grove." 

I  had  hoped  to  daze  him  with  my  sudden  ques- 
tion, to  evoke  a  thoughtless  answer.  But  the  old 
man  merely  laughed  dully,  and  slanmied  the  door 
behind  him  when  he  went  in. 

I  retraced  my  ste^^s  to  Glinnoe.  1  felt  awk- 
ward, like  a  boy  who  has  been  put  to  shame. 

"  Xo,"-I  said  to  mvself :-"  evidentlv,  I  shall 
not  obtain  a  solution  to  this  ])u///le.  T  '11  give  it 
up!    1  will  think  no  more  of  all  this.'" 

An  hour  later,  I  set  out  on  my  homeward  drive, 
enraged  and  irritated. 

A  week  ehij)se(l.  'I'ly  as  I  might  to  banish 
from  me  the  memory  of  the  l^nknown,  of  her 
comj)anion,  of  my  meetings  with  them,  —  it  kept 
constantly  returning,  and  besieged  me  with  all 
the  importunate  persistence  of  an  after-dinner 
flv.   .   .   .    Lukvanitcb.  with  bis  mvsterious  looks 

180 


'iiiim:i-:  Misiyrixcjs 

and  reserved  speeches,  witli  liis  coldly-iiiournful 
smile,  also  recurred  incessantly  to  niv  memory. 
The  house  itself,  when  I  thought  of  it,  — that 
house  itself  gazed  at  me  cunningly  and  stupidly 
tlirough  its  half-closed  shutters,  and  seemed  to 
he  jeering  at  me,  as  though  it  were  saying  to  me: 
"  And  all  the  same  thou  shalt  not  find  out  any- 
thing! ''  At  last  I  could  endure  it  no  longer,  an:^. 
one  fine  day  I  drove  to  Glinnoe,  and  from  Glfn- 
noe  set  out  on  foot  ....  whither?  The  readei- 
can  easily  divine. 

I  must  confess  that,  as  1  approached  the  mys- 
terious manor,  I  felt  a  decidedly  violent  agitation. 
The  exterior  of  the  house  had  not  undergone  the 
slightest  change:  the  same  closed  windows,  the 
same  melancholy  and  desolate  aspect;  only,  on 
the  bench,  in  front  of  the  wing,  instead  of  old 
Lukyanitch,  sat  some  young  house-serf  or  other, 
of  twenty,  in  a  long  nankeen  kaftan  and  a  red 
shirt.  He  w^as  sitting  with  his  curly  head  resting 
on  his  palm,  and  dozing,  swaying  to  and  fro  from 
time  to  time,  and  quivering. 

"  Good  morning,  hrotlier!  "— I  said  in  a  loud 
\'oice. 

He  immediately  sj^rang  to  his  feet  and  stared 
at  me  with  widely-opened,  panic-stricken  eyes. 

"Good  morning,  brother!"  —  I  repeated:  — 
"  And  where  is  the  old  man?  " 

"What  old  man?" — said  the  young  fellow, 
slowly. 

181 


TIIKKK    MEETINGS 

"  Liikyaiiitcli." 

"Ah,  Liikyaniteli! "— He  darted  a  glance 
aside.  — "Do  you  want  Lukyiinitch?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.     Is  lie  at  home:*  " 

"  X-no,"  — enunciated  the  young  fellow,  hro- 
kenlv,  — "  he,  vou  know  .  .  .  how  shall  I  .  .  . 
tell  .   .   .  you   .   .  .  ahout  ....  that  .  .  .  ." 

"Is  hem?" 

"  Xo." 

'•  What  then?" 

"  Why,  he  is  n't  here  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because.  Something  ....  unpleasant  .  .  . 
happened  to  him." 

"  Is  he  dead?  "  —  I  inquired  with  surprise. 

"  He  strangled  himself." 

"  Strangled  himself!  "—I  exclaimed  in  af- 
fright, and  clasped  my  hands. 

We  both  gazed  in  each  other's  eyes  in  silence. 

"  How  long  ago?  "—I  said  at  last. 

"  Why,  to-dav  is  the  fifth  day  since.  They 
])uried  him  yesterday." 

"  But  why  did  he  strangle  himself?  " 

"  The  I^ord  knows.  He  was  a  freeman,  on 
wages;  he  did  not  know  want,  the  masters  petted 
him  as  though  he  were  a  relation.  For  we  have 
such  good  masters  — may  God  giye  them  health! 
I  sim}:)ly  can't  understand  what  came  over  him. 
Evidently,  the  Evil  One  entra])])e(l  him." 

"But  how  did  he  do  it?" 

182 


THRKK    MKiyilXGS 

"  W'liy,  so.     lie  took  iiiid  stran<4"lL'(l  hinisclf." 
"  And  nothing  of  the  sort  had  been  previously 
noticed  in  him?  " 

"  How  shall  1  tell  you.  .  .  .  There  was  no- 
thing' ....  ])articular.  He  was  always  a  very 
melancholy  man.  He  used  to  groan,  and  groan. 
'  I  'm  so  bored,'  he  would  say.  Well,  and  then 
there  was  his  age.  Of  late,  he  really  did  begin 
to  meditate  something.  He  used  to  come  to  us  in 
the  village;  for  1  'm  his  nephew.  — '  Well,  Vasya, 
my  lad,'  he  would  say, '  prithee,  brother,  come  and 
spend  the  night  with  me! '— '  What  for,  uncle? ' 
—  'Why,  because  I'm  frightened,  somehow; 
't  is  tiresome  alone.'  Well,  and  so  I  'd  go  to  him. 
He  would  come  out  into  the  courtyard  and  stare 
and  stare  so  at  the  house,  and  shake  and  shake 
his  head,  and  how  he  would  sigh!  .  .  .  Just  be- 
fore that  night,  that  is  to  say,  the  one  on  which 
he  put  an  end  to  his  life,  he  came  to  us  again, 
and  invited  me.  AVell,  and  so  I  went.  ^Vhen 
we  reached  his  wing,  he  sat  for  a  wliile  on  the 
bench;  then  he  rose,  and  went  out.  I  wait,  and 
'  he  's  ratliei"  long  in  coming  back  '  —  says  I,  and 
went  out  into  the  courtyard,  and  shouted,  '  Fn- 
cle!  hey,  uncle!  '  My  uncle  did  not  call  l)ack. 
Thinks  I :  '  Whither  can  he  have  gone?  surely,  not 
into  the  liouse?'  a?i(l  J  went  into  the  house. 
Twilight  was  already  drawing  on.  ^Vnd  as  I  was 
passing  the  stoir-rooin.  I  heard  something 
scratching  there,  behind  llie  dooi-i  so  1  took  and 

18a 


TIIKKK    MEETINGS 

opened  the  door.     Beliold,  there  he  sat  doubled  up 
under  the  window. 

AN'hat  art  tliou  doing  there,  uncle? '  says  1. 
But  he  turns  round,  and  how  lie  shouts  at  me,  and 
his  eves  are  so  keen,  so  keen,  tliev  fairlv  blaze, 
like  a  cat's. 

What  dost  thou  want?  Dost  not  see — I  am 
shavin""  mvself.'  And  his  voice  was  so  hoarse. 
]My  hair  suddenly  rose  upright,  and  1  don't  know 
why  I  got  frightened  .  .  .  evidently,  about  that 
time  the  devils  had  already  assailed  him. 

What,  in  the  dark? ' — savs  I,  and  mv  knees 
fairly  shook. 

Come,'  says  he,  '  it  's  all  right,  begone! ' 

"  I  went,  and  he  came  out  of  the  store-room 
and  locked  the  door.  So  we  went  back  to  the 
wing,  and  the  terror  immediately  left  me. 

"  '  What  wast  thou  doing  in  the  store-room, 
uncle? '  says  I.  —  He  was  fairly  frightened. 

"'Hold  thv  tonaiie! '  savs  he;  'hold  thv 
tongue!'  and  he  crawled  up  on  the  oven-bench. 

"  '  Well,'  thinks  I  to  myself,-'  't  will  be  better 
for  me  not  to  speak  to  him:  he  surely  must  be 
feeliiiQ-  ill  lo-dav.'  So  I  went  and  lav  down  on 
the  o\en-bciich  mvseli',  too.  And  a  ni<'ht-h<''ht 
was  bui-ning  in  a  coi'iier.  So,  I  am  lying  there, 
and  just  dozing,  you  know  .  .  .  when  suddeidy 
r  hear  the  door  creaking  softly  .  .  .  and  it  opens 
—  so,  a  little.  i\nd  my  uncle  was  lying  with  his 
hack    lo   the    door,   and,   as  you    may   ix'memljer, 

184- 


tttri<:k  mkk/ii\(;s 

he  was  always  a  little  hard  of  hearing'.     Hut  this 
time  he  sprang  up  suddenly.  .  . 

Wlio  's  calling  nie,  hey?  who  is  itJ*  hast  come 
for  nie,  for  nie^  !'  and  out  he  ran  into  the  yard 
without  his  hat.   .   .   . 

I  thought:  'What's  the  mattei-  \vitli  liinif' 
and.  sinl'id  man  thai  I  am,  1  fell  asleep  imme- 
diately. 'I'he  next  morning  I  woke  up  .... 
and  Lukyaniteh  was  not  there. 

"  I  went  out  of  doors  and  hegan  to  call  him — he 
was  nowhere.     I  asked  the  watchman: 

Has  n't  niv  uncle  come  out? '  savs  I. 
"  'Xo/  says  he,  '  I  lun-e  n't  seen  him.'  .  .  . 

Has  n't  something  happened  to  him,  ])ro- 
ther?  '  .  .  .  .  says  I.  .  . 

"  '  ()i! '  .  .  .  .  We  were  hoth  fairly  frightened. 
Come,  Feodosveitch,'  savs  I, '  come  on,'  savs 
I,  — '  let 's  see  whether  he  is  n't  in  the  house.' 

Come  on,'— says  he,  '  Vasily  Timofyeitch! ' 
hut  he  himself  was  as  w^hite  as  clay- 

"  We  entered  the  house.  .  .  I  was  ahout  to 
])ass  the  store-room,  hut  1  glanced  and  the  pad- 
lock w'as  hanging  open  on  the  hasp,  and  I  pushed 
the  door,  hut  the  door  was  fastened  inside.  .  .  . 
Feodosveitch  inmiediately  ran  round,  and  pee2)cd 
in  at  the  window. 

"'Vasily  Timofyeitch!'  he  cries; — 'his  legs 
are  hanging,  his  legs  .  .  .  ' 

"  T  ran  to  the  window.  And  they  were  his  legs, 
Lukyjiniteh's  legs.     And  he  had  hanged  himself 

IS.-) 


TIIKKK    MKKriX(;S 

ill  the  niicklk-  ol"  tlie  room.  — Well,  we  sent  for  the 
judge.  .  .  .  They  took  him  clown  from  the  rope; 
the  rope  was  tied  witli  twelve  knots." 

"  Welk  what  did  the  court  sayr" 

"What  did  the  court  say^  Xothing.  They 
pondered  and  i)()n(ieic(l  wluit  tlie  cause  might 
he.  Tliere  was  no  cause.  And  so  they  decided 
that  he  must  have  keen  out  of  his  mind.  1 1  is  head 
had  keen  aching  of  late,  he  had  keen  complaining 
very  frequently  of  kis  kead.  .  .  ." 

1  ckatted  for  akout  kalf  an  kour  longer  witk  tke 
young  fellow,  and  went  away,  at  last,  completely 
disconcerted.  I  must  confess  tkat  I  could  not 
look  at  tkat  rickety  kouse  witkout  a  secret,  super- 
stitious terror.  ...  A  montk  later  I  quitted  my 
countrv-seat,  and  little  kv  little  all  tkese  korrors. 
tkese  mysterious  encounters,  vanisked  from  my 
mind. 

II 

Three  years  passed.  Tke  greater  part  of  tkat 
time  1  spent  in  Peterskurg  and  akroad;  and  even 
wken  I  (kd  I'lin  doww  to  niy  pkice  in  tke  country. 
it  was  only  for  a  few  tlays  at  a  time,  so  tkat  I 
never  ckanced  to  he  in  (rlinnoe  or  in  Mikkailov- 
skoe  on  a  single  occasion.  Xowkere  kad  I  seen 
mv  keautv  nor  tke  man.  One  dav,  toward  tke 
end  of  tke  tkird  year,  in  Moscow,  I  ckanced  to 
meet  Madame  Sklykoff  and  lier  sister,  l*elageya 

186 


TIIKKK    .MKK'l  IX(;S 

Budiictt' — that  same  Pclagcva  wlioiii  I,  sini'ul 
man  that  I  am,  had  liitlicrto  regarded  as  a  myth- 
ical being— at  an  evening  gathering  in  tlie  house 
of  one  of  my  acquaintances.  Neither  of  the 
hidies  was  any  longer  young,  and  both  ])ossessed 
pleasing  exteriors;  tlieii"  conversation  was  cliar- 
acterised  by  wit  and  mirth:  tliev  had  travelled 
a  great  deal,  and  travelled  with  profit;  easy  gaiety 
was  observable  in  their  manners.  But  tliey  and 
my  acquaintance  had  positively  nothing  in  com- 
mon. I  was  presented  to  tliem.  ^Madame  Shly- 
kofF  and  I  dropped  into  conversation  (her  sister 
was  being  entertained  by  a  passing  geologist). 
1  informed  her  that  1  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
her  neighbour  in  ***  county. 

"  Ah!  1  really  do  possess  a  small  estate  there," 
—  she  remarked,  —  "  near  (ilinnoe." 

"Exactly,  exactly,"  — I  returned:  —  "1  know 
your  ^likhailovskoe.     Do  you  ever  go  thither?  " 

"I?-Rarely." 

"  Were  you  tliere  three  years  ago?  " 

"  Stay!  I  tliink  1  was.     Ves,  1  was,  that  is  true." 

"  AA'^ith  your  sister,  or  alone?  " 

She  darted  a  glance  at  me. 

"  \Vith  my  sister.  We  spent  al)oul  a  Nveek 
there.  On  business,  you  know.  However,  we 
saw  no  one." 

"  H'm.  ...  I  think  there  are  very  few  neigli- 
])ours  there." 

Ves,  \  cry  lew  .     1  'm  not  lond  of  iieiglibours." 

187 


TllKEK    MKKTlXCiS 

"  Tell  nie,  '  —  1  began;  — "  1  believe  you  had  a 
eatastro])he  there  that  same  vear.  Liikyji- 
niteh  .  .  .  /' 

JNIadaine  Shlykoff' s  eyes  iininediately  filled 
with  tears. 

"  And  did  you  know  him?  "  —  she  said  with  vi- 
vaeity.  — "  Such  a  misfortune!  He  was  a  very 
fine,  good  old  man  .  .  .  and  just  fancy,  without 
any  cause,  you  know   .   .   .   .'" 

INIadame  Shlykofi"s  sister  ajjproached  us.  She 
was,  in  all  probability,  beginning  to  be  bored  by 
the  learned  disquisitions  of  the  geologist  about 
the  formation  of  the  banks  of  the  Volga. 

"  Just  fancy,  Pauline," — began  my  compan- 
ion;— "  monsieur  knew  Lukyaniteh." 

"  Really?    Poor  old  man!  " 

"  I  hunted  more  than  once  in  the  environs  of 
jNlikhailovskoe  at  that  i)eriod,  wjien  you  Mere 
there  three  years  ago,"  —  I  remarked. 

"I?" — returned  Pelageya,  in  some  astonisli- 
ment. 

"  Well,  yes,  of  course!  "  —  hastily  interposed 
her  sister:  "  is  it  possibk-  that  tliou  dost  not  re- 
call it?" 

iVnd  she  k)oked  her  intently  in  the  eye. 

"  Akh,  yes,  yes  .  .  .  that  is  true!"  —  replied 
Pelageya,  suddenly. 

"  Ehe — he!  "  I  thought:  "  I  don't  believe  you 
were  in  JNlikhailovskoe,  my  dear." 

"  \\'ill  not  you   sing  us  something,   Pelageya 

1H8 


'I' 11  hi: Is  .Mi:K/n\(;s 

Feodorovna?" — suddenly  began  a  tall  young 
man,  Avith  a  crest  of  fair  liair  and  turbidly-sueel 
little  eyes. 

'' Keally,   I   don't  know,"  —  said  Miss  Jiadaeff. 

"  iVnd  do  you  sing?" — I  exclaimed  with  vi- 
vacity, springing  uj)  hi'iskly  from  my  seat.  "  Foi- 
heaven's  sake  ....  akli,  for  heaven's  sake,  do 
sing  us  something." 

"  But  what  shall  1  sing  to  you?  " 

"  Don't  you  know,"  —  I  began,  using  my  ut- 
most endeavours  to  im])art  to  my  face  an  indif- 
ferent and  easy  ex])ression,  — "  an  Italian  song 
.  .  .  it  })egins  this  way:  '  Passa  (lucl  colli  '  ^  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Pelageya  with  ])erfect  inno- 
cence. "Do  vou  want  me  to  sing  that?  Very 
well." 

And  she  seated  herself  at  the  piano.  I,  like 
Hamlet,  riveted  my  eyes  on  ^Madame  Shlvkoff. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  at  the  first  note  she  gave  a 
slight  start;  but  she  sat  (juietly  to  the  end.  ^liss 
Badaeff  sang  (juite  well.  The  song  ended,  the 
customaiy  ])laudits  resounded.  They  began  to 
urge  her  to  sing  something  else;  but  the  two  sis- 
ters exchanged  glances,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
they  took  their  departure.  As  they  left  the  room 
I  overheard  the  word  "  imporlun." 

"  1  deserved  it!  "  1  thought  — and  did  not  meet 
them  again. 

Still  another  year  ela])sed.  I  transferred  mv 
residence   to   Petersburg.      AVinter  arrived;   the 

180 


riiKKK  .MKF/riX(;s 

inas(jiicrades  began.  One  day,  as  I  emerged  at 
eleven  oV'loek  at  niglit  i'rom  the  house  of  a  friend, 
I  felt  invself  in  sneli  a  glooniv  frame  of  mind  that 
I  deeided  to  betake  myself  to  the  mascpierade  in 
the  Assembly  of  the  Xobilitv.'  For  -i  U)\\<y  time 
I  roamed  about  among  the  columns  and  past  the 
mirrors  with  a  disereetly-l'atalistie  ex])ressi()n  on 
my  eountenanee — with  that  expression  whieli,  so 
far  as  1  have  observed,  makes  its  appearanee  in 
sucli  cases  on  the  faces  of  tlie  most  well-bred  per- 
sons—  why,  the  Lord  oidy  knows.  For  a  long- 
time I  roamed  about,  now  and  then  parrying  with 
a  jest  the  advances  of  divers  shrill  dominoes  w  ith 
suspicious  lace  and  soiled  gloves,  and  still  more 
rarely  addressing  them.  F'or  a  long  time  I  sur- 
rendered my  ears  to  the  blare  of  the  trumpets  and 
the  whining  of  the  violins;  at  last,  being  pretty 
well  bored,  I  was  on  the  point  of  going  home 
....  and  ....  and  remained.  I  caught  sight 
of  a  woman  in  a  black  domino,  leaning  against  a 
column,  —  and  no  sooner  had  1  caught  sight  of  her 
tlian  I  sto])])ed  short,  stepped  up  to  her,  and  .  .  . 
will  tlie  reader  believe  me?  ....  immediately 
recognised  in  her  my  Unknown.  How  I  recog- 
m'sed  her:  wliether  by  tlie  glance  which  she  ab- 
stractedly cast  upon  me  through  the  oblong  aper- 
ture in  her  mask,  or  by  the  wonderful  outlines  of 
her  shoulders  and  arms,  or  by  the  peculiarly  femi- 
nine stateliness  of  her  whole  i'orm,  or,  in  conclu- 

'  I'hf!  Nobles'  Club.  — Thansi.atok. 

11)0 


rilKKK    MKK'I  i\(;s 

sion,  by  some  secret  voice  which  suddeiil}'  spoke  in 
me,  — I  cannot  say  ....  only,  recognise  her  I 
did.  Witli  a  qniver  in  my  lieart,  I  walked  ])ast  her 
several  times.  She  did  not  stir;  in  her  attitnde 
tliere  was  something  so  liopelessly  sorrowfnl  tliat, 
as  I  gazed  at  her,  1  involnntai"ily  recalled  two 
lines  of  a  Spanish  romance: 

Sov  iin  cuaflro  do  tristeza, 
Arrinmdo  a  la  pared.' 

I  stepped  behind  tlie  column  against  wliich  she 
was  leaning,  and  bending  my  head  down  to  her 
very  ear,  enunciated  softly : 

"  Passu  quci  colli."  ... 

She  began  to  tremble  all  over,  and  turned 
swiftly  round  to  me.  Our  eyes  met  at  very 
short  range,  and  I  was  able  to  obser\  e  how  fright 
had  dilated  her  pupils.  Feebly  extending  one 
hand  in  perplexity,  she  gazed  at  me. 

"  On  May  6,  184*,  in  Sorrento,  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  in  della  Croce  Street,"  —  I  said  in  a 
deliberate  voice,  without  taking  my  eyes  from  her; 
"  afterward,  in  Russia,  in  the  ***  Government, 
in  the  hamlet  of  Mikhailovskoe,  on  June  22, 
184*."  .... 

I  said  all  this  in  French.  She  recoiled  a  little, 
scanned  me  from  head  to  foot  with  a  look  of 

^  "  I  am  a  picture  of  sorrow. 
Leaning  against  the  wall." 

191 


aniazenu'iil.    and    w  liisjH'i'iiii>,    "  Vc'iici,"   swil'tly 
left  the  room.     I   followed  her. 

We  walked  on  in  silenee.  It  is  l)eyond  my 
power  to  express  what  I  felt  as  I  walked  side  by 
side  with  hei'.  It  was  as  though  a  very  beautiful 
dream  had  suddenly  beeome  reality  .  .  .  as  though 
the  statue  of  (ralatea  had  deseended  as  a  living- 
woman  from  its  pedestal  in  the  sight  of  the 
swooning  Pvgmalion.  ...  I  eould  not  believe 
it,  I  could  hai'dly  breathe. 

We  traversed  several  rooms.  .  .  .  At  last,  in 
one  of  them,  she  ])ause(l  in  front  of  a  small  divan 
near  the  window,  and  seated  herself.  I  sat  down 
beside  her. 

She  slowly  turned  her  head  toward  me,  and 
looked  intently  at  me. 

"  Do  you  ....  do  you  come  from  him?  "  she 
said. 

Her  voice  was  weak  and  unsteady.  .  . 

Her  question  somewhat  disconcerted  me. 

"  Xo  ....  not  from  him,"  —  I  re])lied  halt- 
ingly. 

"  Do  you  know  him?  " 
Yes,"  —  I  replied,  with  mysterious  solemnity. 
I  wanted  to  kee]i  up  my  role.  —  "  ^'es,   I   know 
him." 

She  looked  distrustfully  at  me,  started  to  say 
something,  and  dropped  her  eyes. 

^"ou  were  waiting  for  him  in  Sorrento,"  —  I 
went  on;  —  "you  met  him  at  Mikhailovskoe,  you 
rode  on  horseback  with  iiim.  ..." 

192 


TIIUKK    MKKTIX(;S 

"  How  could  you    .   .   .   ."  she  began. 

"  1  know  .  .  .  i  know  all.  ..." 

"  Your  face  seems  familiar  to  me,  somehow,"— 
she  continued:  —  "hut  no  .   .   .   ," 

"  No,  I  am  a  stran^ei'  to  you." 

"  Then  what  is  it  that  you  want!"  " 

"  I  know  that  also,"  —  1  persisted. 

I  understood  very  well  that  I  must  take  advan- 
tage of  the  excellent  beginning  to  go  further, 
that  my  repetitions  of  "  I  know  all,  I  know," 
were  becoming  ridiculous  —  but  my  agitation  was 
so  great,  that  unexpected  meeting  had  thrown  me 
into  such  confusion,  I  had  lost  my  self-control  to 
such  a  degree  that  1  positively  was  unable  to  say 
anything  else.  ^Moreover,  I  really  knew  nothing 
more.  I  felt  conscious  that  I  was  talkin.g  non- 
sense, felt  conscious  that,  from  the  mysterious, 
omniscient  being  which  I  must  at  first  ap])ear  to 
her  to  be,  1  should  sooii  be  converted  into  a  sort 
of  grinning  fool  ....  but  there  was  no  help 
for  it. 

Yes,  1  know  all,"  —  I  muttered  once  moir. 

She  darted  a  glance  at  me,  rose  (juickly  to  her 
feet,  and  w^as  on  the  point  of  departing. 

But  this  was  too  cruel.     I  seized  her  hand. 

"For  God's  sake,"  —  1  began,  —  "sit  down, 
listen  to  me.  ..." 

She  retlected,  and  seated  herself. 

"I  just  told  you,"—!  went  on  feixently.^ 
"  that  I  knew  exerything  — that  is  nonsense.  I 
know  nothing;   I   do  not    know   eilhei-   who  you 

193 


THKEK    MEETINGS 

are,  or  wlio  he  is,  and  if  I  have  been  able  to  sur- 
prise you  by  what  I  said  to  you  a  while  ago  by 
the  coluiiHi,  you  must  ascribe  that  to  chance  alone, 
to  a  strange,  incomprehensible  chance,  which,  as 
though  in  derision,  has  brought  me  in  contact  with 
you  twice,  and  almost  in  identically  the  same  a\  ay 
on  both  occasions,  and  lias  made  me  the  involun- 
tary witness  of  that  ^^•hich,  perhaps,  you  would 
like  to  keep  secret.  ..." 

And  thereupon,  without  the  slightest  circumlo- 
cution, I  related  to  her  everything:  my  meet- 
ings with  her  in  Sorrento,  in  Russia,  my  futile 
inquiries  in  ^likhailovskoe,  even  my  conversa- 
tion in  ^loscow  with  ^ladame  ShlvkofF  and  her 
sister. 

"Now  you  know  everything,"'  — 1  went  on, 
when  1  had  finished  my  story.  —  "  I  will  not  under- 
take to  describe  to  you  \\  hat  an  ()\  crw  hehning  im- 
pression you  made  on  me:  to  see  you  and  not 
to  be  bewitched  bv  you  is  impossible.  On  tlie 
other  hand,  there  is  no  need  foi'  me  to  tell  you 
what  tlie  nature  of  tliat  imiiression  was.  Re- 
member under  what  conditions  I  beheld  you  both 
times.  .  .  .  Relieve  me,  I  am  not  fond  of  indulg- 
ing in  senseless  hopes,  but  you  must  understand 
also  that  inexpressible  agitation  which  has  seized 
upon  me  to-day,  and  you  nmst  pardon  the  awk- 
ward artifice  to  which  I  decided  to  have  recourse 
in  order  to  attract  your  attention,  if  oidy  for  a 
moment  .  .  .  ." 

194 


riiui^i:  Mi'j'/i  ix(;s 

she  listened  to  my  confused  explanations  with- 
out raisin «»•  her  head. 

"  \\'hat  do  yon  watit  of  nie?  " — she  said  at  last. 

"  I  ^  .  .  .  I  want  nothing-  ...  I  am  happy 
as  I  am.  ...  I  haxc  too  much  respect  for  such 
secrets." 

"Keally:'  Hut,  up  to  this  point,  apparently 
.  .  .  .  However/'  — she  went  on, — "  I  will  not  re- 
])roach  vou.  Any  man  would  have  done  the  same 
in  your  ])lace.  jNIoreover,  chance  really  has 
hrou^ht  us  together  so  persistently  ,  .  .  that 
would  seem  to  give  you  a  certain  right  to  frank- 
ness on  my  part.  Listen:  1  am  not  one  of  those 
uncomprehended  and  unhappy  women  who  go 
to  mas((uerades  for  the  sake  of  chattering  to  the 
iirst  man  they  meet  ahout  their  sufferings,  who 
re(|uire  hearts  filled  with  sympathy.  .  .  .  I  re- 
(juire  sympathy  from  no  one;  my  own  heart  is 
dead,  and  I  have  come  hither  in  order  to  bury 
it  definitively." 

She  raised  a  handkerchief  to  her  lips. 

"  I  hope  "  —  she  went  on  with  a  certain  amount 
of  effort  — "  that  you  do  not  take  my  words  for 
the  ordinary  effusions  of  a  masquerade.  You 
must  understand  that  T  am  in  no  mood  for 
that.   .   .   .' 

And.  in  truth,  there  was  something  terrible  in 
lier  voice,  despite  all  the  softness  of  its  tones. 

"  1  am  a  Russian,"  — she  said  in  Russian;  — up 
to  that   jioint  she  had   expressed  herself   in   the 

10.> 


TITUKK    MKKTIXGS 

French  lan<>iia«>e:  — "  nllliongli  I  have  lived  litllt' 
in  Russia.  ...  It  is  not  necessary  lor  nie  to 
know  your  name.  Anna  Feodorovna  is  an  old 
friend  of  mine;  I  really  did  go  to  Mikliailovskoe 
under  the  name  of  her  sister.  .  .  It  was  impos- 
sihle  at  that  time  for  me  to  meet  him  openly.  .  . 
xVnd  even  without  that,  rumours  had  hegun  to 
circulate  ...   at  that  time,  ohstaeles  still  existed 

—  he  was  not  free.  .  .  Those  ohstaeles  have  dis- 
appeared .  .  .  hut  he  whose  name  should  hecome 
mine,  he  with  whom  you  saw  me,  has  ahandoned 
me." 

She  made  a  gesture  with  iier  hand,  and  ]iaused 
awhile.   .   .  . 

Vou  really  do  not  know  him :'    Vou  have  not 
met  him?  " 

"  Xot  once." 

"  He  has  spent  almost  all  this  time  ahroad.  15ut 
he  is  here  now,  .  .  .   That  is  my  whole  history,"' 

—  she  added; — "  j^ou  see,  there  is  nothing  myste- 
rious ahout  it,  nothing  peculiar." 

"  And  Sorrento (f  "  —  I  timidly  interposed. 

"  I  made  his  aeciuaintanee  in  Sorrento,"  —  she 
answered  sio^\•ly.  heeoming  ])ensive. 

Both  of  us  licld  our  ])eace.  A  strange  dis- 
composure took  ])ossession  of  me.  1  was  sitting 
heside  her,  l)eside  that  woman  wliose  image  had 
so  often  flitted  through  my  dreams,  had  so  toi-- 
turingly  agitated  and  irritated  me,  —  I  was  sit- 
ting hesidf  her  and  felt  a  cold  and  a  weight  at 

100 


TTIREK    MKKTIXCiS 

my  heart,  1  knew  tliat  uotliiiio-  would  conic  of 
that  nicctin<4,  that  hetween  her  and  nic  there  was 
a  gulf,  tliat  when  we  parted  mc  should  part  f'oi- 
cvcr.  With  her  head  howed  forward  and  ])()th 
hands  lying  in  her  lap,  slie  sat  there  indifferent 
and  careless.  I  know  that  carelessness  of  incur- 
able grief,  I  know  that  indifference  of  irrecover- 
able happiness!  The  masks  strolled  j)ast  us  in 
couples;  the  sounds  of  the  "monotonous  and 
senseless"  waltz  now  reverberated  dully  in  tlic 
distance,  now  were  wafted  by  in  sharp  gusts ;  the 
merry  ball-music  agitated  me  heavily  and  mourn- 
fully. "  Can  it  be,"  — I  thought,  —  "  that  this  wo- 
man is  the  same  who  appeared  to  me  once  on  a 
time  in  the  window  of  that  little  country  house 
far  away,  in  all  the  splendour  of  triumphant 
beauty?  .  .  .  ."  And  yet,  time  seemed  not  to 
have  touched  her.  The  lower  part  of  her  face,  un- 
concealed by  the  lace  of  her  mask,  was  of  almost 
childish  delicacy;  but  a  chill  emanated  from  her, 
as  from  a  statue.  .  .  .  Galatea  had  returned  to 
her  pedestal,  and  would  descend  from  it  no  more. 

wSuddenly  she  drew  herself  up,  darted  a  glance 
into  the  next  room,  and  rose. 

"  (iive  me  your  arm,"  —  she  said  to  me.  "  Let  us 
go  away  ([uickly,  quickly." 

We  returned  to  the  bfdl-rooni.  She  walked  so 
fast  that  I  couhl  barely  keej)  up  with  hei-.  She 
came  to  a  standstill  l)esi(le  one  oC  the  eohnnns. 

"  Let  us  wait  here,"  — she  whis|)ered. 

197 


TIIKKE    MEETINGS 

"  Are  you  looking  for  any  one?  "—I  began. .  . . 

But  slie  paid  no  heed  to  me:  her  eager  gaze  was 
fixed  upon  tlie  jrowd.  Languidly  and  menaeingly 
did  her  great  blaek  eyes  look  forth  from  beneath 
the  black  velvet. 

1  turned  in  the  direction  of  her  gaze  and  un- 
derstood eveiything.  Along  the  corridor  formed 
by  the  row  of  columns  and  tlie  wall,  he  was  walk- 
ing, that  man  whom  I  had  met  with  her  in  the  for- 
est. I  recognised  him  instantly:  he  had  hardly 
chano-ed  at  all.  His  golden-brown  moustache 
curled  as  handsomely  as  ever,  his  brown  eyes 
beamed  with  the  same  calm  and  self-confident 
cheerfulness  as  of  j'ore.  He  was  walking  without 
haste,  and,  lightly  bending  his  slender  figure,  was 
narrating  something  to  a  woman  in  a  domino, 
whose  arm  was  linked  in  his.  As  he  came  on  a 
level  with  us,  he  suddenly  raised  his  head,  looked 
first  at  me,  then  at  the  woman  with  whom  I  was 
standing,  and  probably  recognised  her  eyes,  for 
his  eyebrows  quivered  slightly,  — he  screwed  up 
his  eyes,  and  a  barely  perceptible,  but  intolerably 
insolent  smile  hovered  over  his  lips.  He  bent 
down  to  Ins  (•onii)anion,  and  whispered  a  couple 
of  words  in  lier  ear;  she  immediately  glanced 
round,  her  blue  eves  hastilv  scanned  us  both,  and 
with  a  soft  laugh  she  menaced  him  with  her  little 
hand  He  slightly  slirugged  one  shoulder,  she 
nestled  up  to  him  cocjuettishiy.   .  .  . 

1  turned  to  my   Knknown.     She  was  gazing 

1J)8 


I'lIKKK    MKKTIXCiS 

after  the  receding  pair,  and  suddenly,  tearing  her 
arm  from  mine,  she  rushed  toward  the  door.  I 
was  alxnit  to  dasli  after  her;  lint  turning  round, 
she  gave  me  sucli  a  look  that  I  made  lier  a  ])ro- 
found  how.  and  remained  wliere  I  was.  T  under- 
stood tliat  to  pursue  her  would  he  ])oth  rude  and 
stupid. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  my  dear  fellow,"— I  said, 
half  an  hour  later,  to  one  of  my  friends  — the 
living  directory  of  Petershurg:  — "  who  is  that 
tall,  handsome  gentleman  with  a  moustache?  " 

"  That  (  .  .  .  that  is  some  foreigner  or  other, 
a  rather  enio-matic  individual,  who  verv  rarelv 
makes  his  appearance  on  our  horizon.  AVhy  do 
you  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh,  hecause!  "  .  .  .  . 

I  returned  home.  Since  that  time  I  have  never 
met  my  Unknown  anywhere.  Had  I  known  the 
name  of  the  man  whom  she  loved,  I  might,  prob- 
ably, have  found  out,  eventually,  who  she  was, 
but  I  myself  did  not  desire  that.  I  have  said 
above  that  that  woman  appeared  to  me  like  a 
dream-vision  — and  like  a  dream-vision  she  went 
past  and  vanished  forever. 


100 


i 


MUMtJ 

(1852) 


1 


MUMlJ 

IN  one  of  the  remote  streets  of  IMoscow,  in  a 
grey  house  with  white  pillars,  an  entresol,  and 
a  crooked  balcony,  dwelt  in  former  days  a  well- 
born  lady,  a  widow,  surrounded  })y  numerous  do- 
mestics. Her  sons  were  in  the  seryice  in  Peters- 
burg, her  daughters  were  married;  she  rarely 
went  out  into  society,  and  was  liying  out  tlie  last 
years  of  a  miserly  and  tedious  old  age  in  solitude. 
Her  day,  cheerless  and  stormy,  was  long  since 
over;  but  her  eyening  also  was  blacker  than  niglit. 
Among  the  ranks  of  her  menials,  the  most  re- 
markable person  was  the  yard-porter,  Gerasim, 
a  man  six  feet  five  inches  in  height,  built  like  an 
epic  hero,  and  a  deaf-nmte  from  his  l)ii'th.  His 
mistress  had  taken  him  from  the  yillage,  where 
he  lived  alone,  in  a  tiny  cottage,  a])art  from  his 
brethren,  and  was  considered  tlie  most  ])unctual 
of  the  taxable  serfs.  Kndowcd  witli  reinarkable 
strength,  he  did  the  work  oi*  four  ])ersons.  Mat- 
ters made  progress  in  his  hands,  and  it  was  a 
cheerful  sight  to  watch  liim  when  he  |)l()uglR'(l 
and,  applying  his  huge  hands  to  the  j)rimitiv(' 
nlough,   seemed    to   be   carving   (![)e!»    the   elastic 

203 


lH)S()in  of  IIr'  viiv\h  alone,  without  tlic  aid  of 
his  Httle  nag;  or  about  St.  Peter's  Day'  wield- 
ing the  seythe  so  shatteriFigly  that  he  might 
even  luiN  e  hewn  off  a  voung  hireh-wood  from  its 
roots;  or  threshing  briskly  and  nni'emittingly 
with  a  chain  seven  feet  in  length,  while  the  firm, 
oblong  muscles  on  his  shoulders  rose  and  fell  like 
levers.  His  uninterrupted  muteness  imparted  to 
his  indefatigable  labour  a  grave  solemnity.  He 
was  a  splendid  peasant,  and  had  it  not  been  for 
his  infirmity,  any  maiden  would  willingly  have 
married  him.  .  .  .  But  Genisim  was  brought  to 
^NFoscow,  ])oots  were  bought  for  him,  a  broom  and 
a  shovel  were  ])ut  into  his  hand,  and  he  was  ap- 
pointed to  be  the  yard-])orter. 

At  first  he  felt  a  violent  dislike  for  his  new 
life.  From  his  childhood  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  field-labour,  to  country  life.  Set  apart  by  his  J 
infirmity  fVom  communion  with  his  fellow-men, 
he  had  grown  up  dumb  and  mighty,  as  a  tree 
grows  on  fruitful  soil.  .  .  .  Trans])orted  to  the 
town,  he  did  not  understand  what  was  happening 
to  him;  —  he  felt  bored  and  puzzled,  as  a  healthy 
young  bull  is  ])uzzled  when  he  has  just  been  taken 
from  the  pasture,  where  the  grass  grew  up  to  his 
belly,  — when  he  has  been  taken,  and  ])laced  in  a 
rail  way- wagon.  — and,  lo,  with  his  robust  body  en- 
\'elo))e(l  now  ^vith  smoke  and  s])arks,  again  with. 
l»illo\\s  of  steam,  he  is  drawn  headlong  onward, 

1  June  29  (O.  S.)-July  13  (X.  S.).-Thansi^tou. 

204, 


MUMU 

drawn  v\'itli  ruinblc  and  squeaking",  and  whitlier 
—  God  only  knows!  (ienisini's  occupations  in  his 
new  employment  seemed  to  him  a  mere  farce 
after  his  onerous  labours  as  a  peasant:  in  half  an 
hour  he  had  finished  evervthini>-.  and  he  was 
again  standing  in  the  middle  of  tlie  eom'tyai'd  and 
staring,  open-mouthed,  at  all  the  passers-by.  as 
though  desii'ous  of  obtaining  from  tliem  the  so- 
lution oi'  his  enigmatic  situation;  or  he  would 
suddenly  go  off'  to  some  corner  and,  flinging  his 
broom  or  his  shovel  far  from  him,  Mould  throw 
himself  on  the  ground  face  downward,  and  lie 
motionless  on  his  breast  for  whole  hours  at  a  time, 
like  a  captured  wild  beast. 

But  man  grows  accustomed  to  everything,  and 
Crerasim  got  used,  at  last,  to  town  life!  He 
had  not  much  to  do;  his  entire  duty  consisted  in 
keeping  the  courtyard  clean,  fetching  a  cask  of 
water  twice  a  day,  hauling  and  chopping  up 
wood  for  the  kitchen  and  house, ^  and  in  not  ad- 
mitting strangers,  and  keeping  watch  at  night. 
And  it  must  be  said  that  he  discharged  his  duty 
with  zeal;  not  a  chip  was  ever  strewn  about  his 
courtyard,  nor  anv  dirt;  if  in  muddv  wcatluT 
the  broken-winded  nag  for  hauling  w  ater  and  tiu- 
barrel  entrusted  to  his  care  got  stranded  any- 
where, all  he  had  to  do  Avas  to  apply  his  shoulder, 

'  I'ormcrly  ill  Mosrow  houses  were  obliged  to  ari  tlicir  w.itcr  in 
l)arrels  on  wheels  fnnii  the  river  or  from  publii-  foiintaiiis.  Hireh- 
wood  is  still  used  lor  eookinp:  and  heatiuf;:.  -Tkansi^vtou. 

20.) 


— and  not  only  the  cart,  but  the  liorse  also,  would 
he  pried  from  the  spot.  If  lie  undertook  to  eho]) 
wood,  his  axe  would  ring  like  glass,  and  splinters 
and  billets  would  flv  in  every  direction;  and  as 
for  strangers — after  lie  had,  one  night,  caught 
two  thieves,  and  had  banged  their  heads  together, 
and  mauled  them  so  that  there  was  no  necessity 
for  taking  them  to  the  police-station  afterward, 
every  one  in  the  neighbourhood  began  to  respect 
him  greatly,  and  even  by  day,  passers-by  who  were 
not  in  the  least  rascals,  but  sipiply  strangers  to 
him,  at  the  sight  of  the  ominous  yard-porter, 
would  brandish  their  arms  as  though  in  self-de- 
fence, and  shout  at  him  as  though  he  were  able 
to  hear  their  cries. 

With  all  the  other  domestics  Gerasim  sustained 
relations  which  were  not  exactly  friendly, — they 
were  afraid  of  him, — but  gentle;  he  regarded 
them  as  members  of  the  family.  They  expressed 
their  meaning  to  him  h\  signs,  and  he  imder- 
stood  them,  accurately  executed  all  orders,  but 
:new  his  own  rights  also,  and  no  one  dared  to 
take  his  seat  at  table.  On  the  whole,  Gerasim 
was  of  stern  and  serious  dis])ositi()n,  and  was  fond 
of  orderliness  in  all  things;  even  tlie  cocks  did  not 
venture  to  fight  in  his  presence— but  if  they  did, 
woe  be  to  them!  if  he  cauglit  sight  of  them,  he 
would  instantly  seize  them  by  the  legs,  whirl 
them  round  like  a  w^heel  half  a  score  of  times  in  the 
air,  and  hurl  them  in  npijosite  directions.     There 

20G 


MUMU 

were  geese  also  in  liis  lady  inistress's  eourtyard, 
but  a  goose,  as  every  one  knows,  is  a  serious  and 
sensible  bird;  (ienisini  felt  res])eet  for  tbeni, 
tended  tlieni,  and  fed  tbeni;  be  biniself  bore  a 
reseniblanee  to  a  stately  gander. 

lie  was  allotted  a  tiny  ebaniber  over  tbe 
kiteben;  be  arranged  it  biniself  after  bis  own 
taste,  eonstrueted  a  bed  of  oaken  ])lanks  on  four 
bloeks — truly  a  bed  fit  for  an  epic  bero;  a  bun- 
dred  puds  ^  migbt  bave  been  loaded  upon  it, — 
it  would  not  bave  given  way.  Under  tbe  bed 
Mas  a  stout  cbest;  in  one  corner  stood  a  small  table 
of  tbe  same  sturd}^  quality,  and  beside  tbe  table 
a  tbree-legged  cbair,  and  so  firm  and  squatty  tbat 
Gerasim  bimself  would  pick  it  up,  dro])  it,  and 
grin.  Tbis  little  den  was  fastened  witb  a  pad- 
lock wbieb  suggested  a  kaldtch  -  in  sba])e,  oidy 
black ;  Gerasim  always  carried  tbe  key  to  tbis  lock 
witb  bim,  in  bis  belt.  He  was  not  fond  of  baving 
people  come  into  bis  room. 

In  tbis  manner  a  year  passed,  at  tbe  end  of 
wbieb  a  small  incident  bap])ened  to  Gerasim. 

Tbe  old  gentlewoman  witb  wliom  be  lived  as 
yar(l-])orter  in  all  tbings  followed  tbe  ancient 
customs,  and  kept  a  numerous  train  of  domestics; 
sbe  bad  in  ber  bouse  not  only  laundresses,  seam- 
stresses, carpenters,  tailors,  and  dressmakers,  but 

^  A  pud  is  about  thirty-six  pounds,  English. —Tuansi^vtou. 
-'  A   peculiarly  shaped  and  delicious  wheaten   roll,  whicli   is  made 
particidarly  well  in  Moscow. —Tiiansi.atou. 

•207 


MUMU 

also  one  saddler,  who  set  up  to  be  a  veterinary  and 
a  medical  man  for  the  servants  as  well  (there 
was  a  house-physician  for  the  mistress),  and,  in 
conclusion,  there  was  a  shoemaker,  by  the  name 
of  Kapiton  Klimoff,  a  bitter  drunkard.  Klimoff 
regarded  himself  as  an  injui-ed  ])eing  and  not 
appreciated  at  his  ti-ne  \alue.  a  cultured  man 
used  to  the  ways  of  the  capital,  who  ought  not 
to  live  in  ^Moscow,  without  occupation,  in  a  sort  of 
desert  spot,  and  if  he  drank,  —  as  he  himself  ex- 
pressed it,  with  j^auses  between  his  words,  and 
thumping  himself  on  the  bi*east, — he  drank  in  re- 
ality from  grief.  One  dav  he  was  under  discus- 
sion  by  the  mistress  and  her  head  butlei-.  Gavrila, 
a  man  who  would  seem,  from  his  little  yellow 
eyes  and  his  duck's-bill  nose,  to  have  been  desig- 
nated by  Fate  itself  us  a  commanding  person- 
age. The  mistress  was  complaining  about  the 
depraved  morals  of  Kapiton.  who  had  been 
picked  up  somewhere  in  the  street  only  the  night 
l^efore. 

"  AVell,  Gavrila,"  —  she  suddenly  remarked:  — 
"  shall  not  we  many  him  ^  \Vliat  dost  thou  think 
about  it?    Perhaps  that  will  steady  him." 

"  AVhy  should  n't  we  many  him,  ma'am ^  It 
can  be  done,  ma'am,"  —  replied  (iavrila;  —  "  and  it 
would  even  be  a  very  good  thing." 

"  Yes;  only  who  would  many  him?" 

"Of  course,  ma'am.  However,  as  yon  like, 
ma'am.     He  can  always  be  put  to  some  use,  so  to 

208 


Mi'Mr 

speak;  you  would  n't  reject  liirn  out  of  any  ten 


men." 


"I  think  he  hkes  Tatyana?" 

(ravri'la  was  al)<)ut  to  make  some  re])ly.  l)ut 
compressed  liis  lips. 

"  Yes!  .  .  .  let  him  woo  Tatyana," — the  mis- 
tress announced  her  decision,  as  she  took  a  pinch 
of  snufF  with  satisfaction:  — "  dost  liear  me?  " 

"  I  obey,  ma'am."  — enunciated  Gavrila,  and 
withdrcAv. 

On  returning  to  his  chamber  (it  was  situated 
in  a  wing,  and  was  almost  completely  filled  with 
A\rought-iron  coffers) ,  Gavrila  first  sent  away  his 
wife,  and  then  seated  liimself  by  the  window,  and 
became  engrossed  in  meditation.  The  mistress's 
sudden  command  had  evidently  dazed  him.  At 
last  he  rose,  and  ordered  Kapiton  to  be  called. 
Kapiton  presented  himself.  .  .  .  Rut  before  we 
]"epeat  their  conversation  to  the  reader,  we  con- 
sider it  not  superfluous  to  state,  in  a  few  words, 
\vho  this  Tatyana  was.  whom  Kapiton  was  to 
marry,  and  why  his  mistress's  command  had  dis- 
concerted the  major-domo. 

Tatyana,  who,  as  we  have  said  above,  served 
as  laundress  (but,  in  her  (juality  of  ex]3ert  and 
well-trained  laundress,  slie  was  given  only  the 
delicate  linen)  ,was  a  woman  of  eight-and-twenty, 
small,  thin,  fair-haired,  with  moles  on  her  left 
cheek.  Moles  on  the  left  cheek  are  regarded  as  a 
bad  sign  in  Russia  —  as  the  presage  of  an  unhappy 

200 


life.  .  .  .  Tatyana  could  not  boast  of  her  luck. 
From  early  youth  she  had  been  ill-treated;  she 
had  ^^•orked  for  two,  and  had  neyer  receiyed  any 
caresses;  she  was  badly  clothed;  she  receiyed  tlie 
\vx\  smallest  of  wa(>es:  she  had  ])ractically  no 
i-elatiyes;  an  old  butlei-  in  the  \  illage  \\\\v>  had  been 
discharged  for  uselessness  was  her  uncle,  and 
her  other  uncles  were  common  peasants, — that  is 
all.  At  one  time  she  had  been  a  beauty,  but  her 
beauty  soon  left  her.  She  was  of  extremely  meek, 
or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  frightened  disposi- 
tion, felt  the  most  complete  indifference  for  her- 
self, and  was  deadly  afraid  of  other  peo])le.  Her 
sole  thought  was  as  to  how  she  might  finish  her 
work  by  the  appointed  time.  She  neyer  talked 
with  any  one,  and  she  trembled  at  the  mere  men- 
tion  of  the  mistress's  name,  although  she  hardly 
knew  her  by  sight. 

When  Gerasim  was  brou.ght  from  the  country, 
she  almost  swooned  with  terror  at  tlie  sight  of  his 
luige  form,  used  all  ])ossible  efforts  to  avoid  meet- 
ing him,  and  eyen  screwed  up  her  eyes  when  she 
was  obliged  to  run  past  him,  as  she  scurried  from 
the  house  to  the  laundry.  At  first,  Gerasim  paid 
no  special  attention  to  her,  then  he  began  to  laugh 
when  she  crossed  his  path;  then  he  began  to  gaze 
at  her  with  pleasure,  and  at  last  he  neyer  took  his 
eyes  from  her.  Whether  he  had  taken  a  liking 
to  her  because  of  her  gentle  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, or  of  the  timidity  of  her  movements — 

210 


MUMU 

God  knows!  And  behold,  one  day,  as  she  was 
making  her  way  across  the  conrtyard,  cantioiisly 
elevating'  on  her  outspread  fingers  a  starelicd 
wrapper  belonging  to  her  mistress  .  .  .  someone 
suddenly  grasped  her  hy  tlie  elbow;  she  turned 
round  and  fairly  screamed  aloud :  behind  her  stood 
Gerasim.  I^aughing  stu})idly,  and  bellowing  af- 
fectionately, he  was  offering  her  a  gingerbread 
cock  with  gold  tinsel  on  its  tail  and  wings.  She 
tried  to  refuse  it,  but  he  thrust  it  forcibly  straight 
into  her  hand,  nodded  his  head,  walked  away,  and, 
turning  roiuid,  bellowed  once  more  something  of 
a  verv  friendly  nature  to  her.  From  that  dav 
forth  he  gave  her  no  peace;  \\herever  she  went, 
he  immediately  came  to  meet  her,  smiled,  bel- 
lowed, waved  his  hands,  suddenly  drew  a  ribbon 
from  his  breast  and  thrust  it  into  her  hand,  and 
cleaned  the  dust  away  in  fi-ont  of  hei-  \\  ith  his 
broom. 

The  poor  girl  siniply  did  not  know  how  to  take 
it  or  what  to  do.  The  whole  household  speedily 
found  out  about  the  ])ranks  of  the  dunii)  yard- 
porter;  jeers,  jests,  stinging  remarks  showered 
down  on  Tatyjina.  l?ut  none  of  them  could  bring 
himself  to  i-idieule  Cienisim;  the  latter  was  not 
fond  of  jests;  and  tliey  k't  hei-  alone  iii  his  ])res- 
ence.  AVilly-nilly  the  girl  became  his  protegee. 
Like  all  deaf  and  dumb  people,  he  was  very  ])er- 
spicacious,  and  understood  perfectly  \rell  when 
the}'  were  laughing  at  him  or  at  her.     One  day, 

211 


MUMU 

at  dinner,  the  keeper  of  the  hnen,  Tatyana's  chief, 
undertook,  as  the  saying  is,  to  banter  her,  and 
carried  it  to  sucli  a  pitch  that  tlie  hitter,  ])()()r 
creature,  did  not  know  where  to  look,  and  ahnost 
wept  with  vexation.  Gerasim  suddenly  rose  hali'- 
wav,  stretched  out  his  enormous  hand,  laid  it  on 
the  head  of  the  keeper  of  the  linen,  and  glared 
into  her  face  with  such  ferocity  that  tlie  latter 
fairly  bent  over  the  table.  All  fell  silent,  (iera- 
sini  picked  up  his  spoon  again,  and  went  on 
eating  his  cabbage-soup.  ''  Just  see  that  dumb 
devil,  that  forest  fiend!"  all  muttered  under 
their  breaths,  and  the  keeper  of  the  linen  rose 
and  went  off  to  the  maids'  room.  On  anotliei-  oc- 
casion, observing  that  Kapiton  — that  same  Kapi- 
ton  of  whom  we  have  just  been  speaking— was 
chatting  in  rather  too  friendly  a  mannei-  witli  Ta- 
tyana,  Gerasim  beckoned  the  man  to  him,  led  liim 
awa}'  to  the  carriage-house,  and  seizing  by  its  end 
a  shaft  wliich  was  standing  in  the  corner,  lie  men- 
aced liim  slightly  but  significantly  with  it.  From 
that  time  forth  no  one  dared  to  address  a  word 
to  Tatyjina.  And  all  this  ran  smoothly  in  his 
hands.  Xo  sooner  had  the  linen-keeper,  it  is  true, 
run  into  the  maids'  hall  than  she  fell  down  in  a 
swoon,  and  altogether  behaved  in  such  an  artful 
manner,  that  on  that  very  same  day  she  brought 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  mistress  (ienisim's  rude 
behaviour;  but  the  cai)ricious  old  lady  merely 
laughed  several  times,  to  the  extreme  offence  of 

212 


]\IUMM 

her  liiien-keepci-,  inadc  hvv  repeal,  '  W'lial  didst 
thou  say?  Did  lie  bend  thee  down  witli  his  lieavv 
hand;*"  and  on  tlie  following"  day  sent  a  silver 
ruble  to  Cienisim.  She  favoured  him  as  a  faithful 
and  powerful  watchman.  Gerasim  held  her  in 
decided  awe,  but,  nevertheless,  he  trusted  in  her 
graciousness,  and  was  making  ready  to  betake 
himself  to  her  with  the  request  that  she  would 
permit  him  to  marry  Tatyana.  lie  was  only 
M'aiting  for  the  new  kaftan  promised  him  by  the 
major-domo,  in  order  that  he  might  present  him- 
self before  his  mistress  in  decent  shape,  when  sud- 
denly this  same  mistress  took  into  her  head  the 
idea  of  marrying  Tai:yana  to  Kapiton. 

The  reader  will  now  be  able  readily  to  under- 
stand the  cause  of  the  perturbation  which  seized 
upon  Gavrila,  the  major-domo,  after  his  conver- 
sation with  his  mistress.  "  The  mistress,"  — he 
thought,  as  he  sat  by  the  window,  — "  of  course, 
favours  Gerasim  "  (this  was  well  known  to  Ga- 
vrila, and  therefore  he  also  showed  indulgence 
to  him)  ;  "  still,  he  is  a  dumb  brute.  I  can't  in- 
I'orm  the  mistress  that  Cxcrasim  is  courting  Ta- 
tyana. And,  after  all,  't  is  just;  what  sort  of  a 
husband  is  he?  And,  on  the  other  hand,  Lord  for- 
give! for  just  as  soon  as  that  forest  fiend  finds 
out  that  Tatyana  is  to  be  married  to  Ka})iton, 
he  '11  smash  everything  in  the  house,  by  Heaven 
he  will!  For  you  can't  reason  with  him  yon 
can't  prevail  upon  him,  the  devil  that  he  is,  in  any 

213 


way  whatsoever — sinful  man  tliat  I  am  to  have 
said  so  wicked  a  thing  ....  tliat  's  so!  "  .  .  .  . 

The  appearance  of  Kapiton  hroke  the  thread 
of  Gavrila's  mechtations.  Tiie  giddy-pated  shoe- 
maker entered,  threw  his  liands  heiiind  liim,  and, 
leaning  up  against  a  j)i-()jeeting  corner  of  the 
wall  near  the  door,  in  a  free-and-easv  way  he 
stuck  his  right  leg  crosswise  in  front  of  the  left 
and  shook  his  liead,  as  much  as  to  say:  "  Here  I 
am.     What  's  yoin-  will?" 

Gavrila  looked  at  Kapiton  and  began  to  drum 
on  the  jamb  of  the  window  \v\i\\  his  fingers. 
Kapiton  merely  narrowed  his  leaden  eyes  a  hit, 
but  did  not  lower  them,  even  smiled  slightly  and 
passed  his  hand  over  his  whitish  hair,  which  stood 
out  in  disarray  in  all  directions,  as  much  as  to  say : 
"  Well,  yes,  't  is  I.    What  are  you  staring  for?  " 

"  Good,"  — said  Gavrila,  and  ])aused  for  a 
space. 

"  Thou  'rt  a  nice  one,"  —  remarked  Gavrila,  and 
paused  awhile.  —  "  A  nice  person,  there  's  no  de- 
nying that!  " 

Kapiton  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  And 
art  thou  any  better,  pray?  "  he  said  to  himself. 

"  Come,  now,  just  look  at  thyself;  come,  look," 
— went  on  Gavrila  reprovingly;—"  Well,  art  not 
thou  ashamed  of  thyself?  " 

Kapiton  surveyed  with  a  calm  glance  his 
threadbare  and  tattered  coat  and  his  ])atched 
trousers,   scanned   with    particular   attention    his 

21'4 


MUMU 

shoes  perforated  witli  lioles,  e.si)eeially  llie  our 
on  whose  toe  his  right  foot  rested  in  so  (huuhfied 
a  manner,  and  again  fixed  his  eyes  on  tlie  nia.ior- 
donio. 

"What  of  it,  sirT' 

"  What  of  it,  sir?  "  —  repeated  Gavrila. — 
"  What  of  it,  sir  i  And  thon  sayest :  '  AVliat  of  it, 
sir? '  to  boot!  Thon  lookest  hke  the  devil,  —  Lord 
forgive  me,  sinful  man  that  I  am,  —  that  's  what 
thou  lookest  like." 

Kapiton  winked  his  little  eyes  briskly. 

"  Curse  away,  curse  away,  Gavrila  Andreitch," 
he  thought  to  himself. 

"  Thou  hast  been  drunk  again,  apparently,"  — 
began  Gavrila;  —  "drunk  again,  surely?  Hey? 
Come,  answer." 

"  Owing  to  the  feebleness  of  my  health,  I  have 
succumbed  to  spirituous  beverages,  in  fact,"  — 
returned  Kapiton. 

"  Owing  to  feebleness  of  health?  ....  Thou 
art  not  whipped  enough,  that  's  what;  and  thou 
hast  served  thine  apprenticeship  in  Peter  ^  to  boot. 
.  .  .  ^Nluch  thou  didst  learn  in  thine  apprentice- 
ship! Thou  dost  nothing  but  eat  the  bread  of 
idleness." 

"  In  that  case,  Gavrila  Andreitch,  I  have  but 
one  judge,  —  the  Lord  God  Himself,  and  no  one 
else.  He  alone  knows  what  sort  of  a  man  I  am 
in  this  world,  niid  whether  T  r6allv  do  eat  the  bread 

^  St.  Petcrshur^'-.  — TiiANsi..vrou. 


MLxMU 

ol'  idkiicss.  And  as  for  thy  refitctions  concern- 
ing" drunkenness,  — in  that  case  also  I  am  not  to 
hhinie,  hut  rather  one  of  my  eonu'ades;  for  he 
led  me  astray,  and  after  he  had  aceom])lished  his 
crafty   [)urpose,  he  went  away;   that   is  to  say, 

"  xVnd  thou  didst  remain  hehind,  thou  <4"0()se,  in 
the  street.  ^Vkh,  thou  dissolute  man!  \Vell.  but 
that  's  not  the  point," — Avent  on  the  major-domo, 
— "  but  this.  The  mistress  .  .  .  ."  here  he 
paused  for  a  moment,  —  "  it  is  the  mistress's 
pleasure  that  thou  shouldst  marry.  Hearest 
thou?  She  thinks  that  thou  wilt  grow  steady 
when  thou  art  married.    13ost  understand  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  help  understanding,  sir^  " 

"  Well,  yes.  In  my  o])inion,  't  would  be  better 
to  take  thee  firndy  in  hand.  Well,  but  that  \s  her 
affair.     How  now^    Dost  thou  consents  " 

Kapiton  displayed  his  teeth  in  a  grin. 

"  ^Marriage  is  a  good  thing  for  a  man,  Gavrila 
Andreitch:  and  I,  on  my  part,  agree  with  very 
great  })leasure." 

"  AN'ell.  yes,"  — returned  Gavrila.  and  thought 
to  himself:  —  "  there  \s  no  denying  it,  the  man 
talks  with  exactness."  —  "  Only,  see  here,"  — he 
went  on,  aloud:—"  an  inconvenient  bride  has  been 
jjicked  out  for  thee." 

"  AVho  is  she,  })ermit  me  to  inquire?  "... 
1  atyana. 
latvanaf 

21G 


MTMI 

Ai\d  Kapilons  eyes  i'airly  popped  out  of  his 
head,  and  he  started  away  from  the  wall. 

"  Well,  what  art  thou  scared  at?  ...  Is  n't 
siie  to  thy  tasted   ' 

"To  my  lasle.  forsooth,  (Tavrila  iVndreiteh! 
Tlic  girl  herself  is  all  ri<4ht;  she  "s  a  <i()od  worker, 
a  meek  lass.  .  .  .  Hut  you  know  yourself,  (ia- 
vrila  iVndreiteh,  that  that  forest  fiend,  that  spec- 
tre of  the  steppes,  is  courting"  her,  you  know  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,  hrother,  I  know  all,"  —  the  major- 
domo  interru])te(l  him,  with  vexation:  — "  hut, 
seest  thou  .  .  .  ." 

"  But,  good  gracious,  Gavrila  Andreitch!  why, 
he  11  nun-der  me;  hy  Heaven,  he  '11  murder  me, 
he  11  mash  me  like  a  flv!  \Vhv,  he  has  a  hand— 
just  look  for  yourself  wliat  a  hand  he  has:  why, 
he  simply  has  the  hand  of  Minin  and  Po/harsky.' 
For  he  's  deaf,  he  11  kill  me,  and  not  hear  that 
he  is  killing!  He  flourishes  his  huge  fists  exactly 
as  though  he  were  asleep.  And  there  's  no  pos- 
sil)ility  of  stopping  him.  AVhy^  Because,  you 
know  yourself,  (iavrila  Andreitch,  he  s  deaf, 
and  stupid  as  an  owl  into  the  hargain.  \Vhy,  he  's 
a  sort  of  wild  heast,  a  heathen  idol,  (Tavrila  An- 
dreitch,—  worse  than  an  idol  ...  he  's  a  .sort  of 
aspen-hlock:  why  should  I  now  suffer  from  him? 

^  Miiiin,  the  burgher  of  N'fzhni  \()Vfrorod,  .iihI  l^iiicc  Pozhfirsky, 
who  led  the  Uiissiaiis  ag.-iinst  the  iiivadinji-  Toles  in  Kii .',  and  expelled 
them  from  Russia.  Their  expulsion  was  followed  by  the  eleetion  to 
the  throne  of  the  first  Roni.anoff  Tzar,  Mikliail  Feddorovit<-h.— Trans- 
i.Aion. 

217 


^\\y\v 

Of  course  nothing  matters  to  me  now;  1  liave  en- 
dured, 1  have  practised  patience,  I  have  smeared 
myself  witli  oil  like  a  glazed  Kolomna  jug,  —  all 
the  same.  T  'ni  a  man,  and  not  some  sort  of  insig- 
nificant }uy^,  as  a  mattci"  of  fact." 

"  1  know.  I  know,  dont  give  a  description.  .  .  ." 
"  O  Lord,  my  (rod!  ''  —  went  on  the  shoemaker, 
hotlv: — "when  will  the  end  come^  When,  O 
Lord !  I  'm  a  miserable  wretch,  a  hopeless  wretch. 
'T  is  fate,  my  fate,  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it!  In  mv  younger  years  I  was  thi-ashed  by  a 
German  master:  in  the  best  period  of  my  life 
I  was  beaten  by  my  own  brother;  and  at  last,  in 

m.'  ^- 

my  riper  j'ears,  to  what  have  I  come  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Ekh,  limp  linden-bast  soul!  "  —  said  Gavrila. 
— "  Why  dost  thou  dilate  on  the  matter,  really, 
now  f 

"  AVhat  do  you  mean  by  '  why,'  Gavrila  Andre- 
itch?  I  'm  not  afraid  of  blows,  Gavrila  Andre- 
itch.  Ijtt  the  master  thrash  me  within  doors,  but 
give  me  a  greeting  before  folks,  and  still  I  'm 
numbered  among  men:  but  in  this  case,  from 
whom  must  I  .  .   .  ." 

"Come,  now,  begone!  "  —  Gavrila  interrupted 
him,  im])atient]y. 

Kapiton  turned  and  took  himself  off. 

"And  supposing  there  were  no  question  of 
him,"  — shouted  Die  major-domo  after  him; — 
"  do.st  thou  consent?" 

•218 


I 


INIUMU 

"  T  announce  my  assent,"  — replied  Kapiton, 
and  lu relied  out  of  the  room. 

His  eloquence  did  not  abandon  him  even  in  ex- 
tremities. 

The  major-domo  paced  the  length  of  the  room 
several  times. 

"  AVell,  now  summon  Tatyana/'  —  he  said  at 
last. 

In  a  few  moments  Tatyana  entered  almost  in- 
audihly,  and  halted  on  the  threshold. 

"  A¥hat  is  your  command,  Gavrila  Andreitch?  " 
— she  said  in  a  quiet  voice. 

The  major-domo  gazed  tixedly  at  her. 

"  Come,"  —  said  he,  —  "  Taniusha,  wouldst  thou 
like  to  marry?"  The  mistress  has  hunted  up  a 
bridegroom  'it^x  thee." 

I  obey,  (ravrila  Andreitch.  Hut  who  has 
been  ap|)ointed  as  my  bridegroom^  "  —  she  added 
with  hesitation. 

"  Kapiton,  the  shoemaker." 

"  I  obey,  sir." 

"He  is  a  reckless  man  — that  "s  a  fact.  But 
the  mistress  pins  her  ]u)])es  on  thee  in  that  re- 
spect." 

1  obey,  sir. 

"  It  's  a  pity  al)out  one  thing:  ....  tliere  \s 
that  deaf  man,  Garaska,  who  's  ])aying  court  to 
thee.  And  how  hast  thou  bewitclied  that  bear?  I 
do  believe  he  '11  kill  thee,  the  bear  that  he  is.  .  .  ." 

210 


MUMtr 


"  lie  will,  Gavrila  Aiulreitch,  he  '11  infallibly 
kill  nie." 

"  He  will.  .  .  .  Well,  we  '11  see  about  that. 
\Miat  makes  thee  say,  "  He  '11  kill  me  (  Has  he 
the  right  to  kill  thee,  pray?    Judge  for  thyself." 

"  ^Vhy,  I  don't  know,  Gavrila  Andreiteh,  whe- 
tiier  he  has  a  ri<>'ht  or  not." 

"  What  a  girl!  1  suppose  thou  hast  not  made 
him  any  promise.   .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  " 

The  major-domo  ])aiised  for  a  A\hile,  and 
thought : 

"Thou  art  a  meek  soul!"  —  "Well,  very 
good,"  —  he  added:  "we  will  have  another  talk 
about  it,  and  now,  go  thv  wav,  Tatvana:  I  see 
that  thou  really  art  an  obedient  girl." 

Tatyana  turned,  leaned  lightly  against  the 
door-jamb,  and  left  the  ro.om. 

"  But  perha])s  the  mistress  will  have  forgotten 
about  this  wedding  by  to-morrow,"  —  meditated 
the  major-domo.  "  AVHiy  have  1  been  alarmed? 
^Ve  11  ])ini()n  that  insolent  fellow  if  he  makes 
any  tiouble — we  '11  send  word  to  the  ])oliee.  .  .  . 
I'stinya  Feodorovna!  " — he  shouted  in  a  loud 
A oiee  to  his  wife,  "  prepare  the  samovar,  njy  good 
^voman.  .  .  ." 

All  that  day,  Tatyana  hardly  quitted  the  laun- 
dry. At  first  slie  wept,  then  she  wi])ed  away  her 
tears,  and  set  to  work  as  of  yore.  Ka})iton  sat  un- 
til the  dead  of  night  in  a  drinking  establishment 

220 


:\ruisru 

with  a  IViciul  ol'  gloomy  a.s[)ccl,  aiul  luiiralcd  to 
him  in  detail  how  lie  had  lived  in  Peter  with  a 
eertaiii  gentleman  who  had  everything  that  heart 
eould  desii'e,  a!id  was  a  great  stieklei-  for  ordei', 
and  withal  pei-mitted  himsell'  one  little  delin- 
(jueney:  he  was  wont  to  get  awf'nily  f'nddled,  and 
as  for  the  I'eminine  sex.  he  sim))ly  had  all  the 
(jnalities  to  attraet.  .  .His  gloomy  eonirade 
merely  expressetl  assent:  hnt  when  Kapi'to?!  an- 
nonneed,  at  last,  that,  owing  to  certain  eirenm- 
stances,  he  mnst  lay  violent  hands  upon  himself 
on  the  morrow,  the  gloomy  conn-ade  remarked 
that  it  was  time  to  go  to  hed.  And  they  parted 
churlishly,  and  in  silence. 

Jn  the  meantime,  the  major-domo's  expecta- 
tions were  not  realised.  The  idea  of  Kai)iton\s 
M'edding  had  so  captivated  the  mistress,  that  even 
during  the  night  she  had  talked  of  nothing  else 
with  one  of  her  com])anions,  whom  she  kept  in  the 
house  •solely  in  case  of  sleeplessness,  and  who, 
like  night  cahmen,  slept  hy  day.  When  Gavrila 
entered  her  room  after  tea  with  his  re])ort,  her 
first  question  was: 

"  And  how  about  our  wedding?  " 

He  replied,  of  course,  that  it  was  progressing 
famously,  and  that  Ka])iton  would  i)resent  him- 
self to  her  that  same  day  to  thank  her. 

The  mistress  was  slightly  indisposed:  she  did 
not  occupy  herself  long  with  hnsiness.  The 
major-domo  returned  to  his  own  I'oom  and  called 

221 


Ml.Ml^ 

a  council.  The  matter  rcall\'  did  retjuirc  partic- 
ular consideration.  Tatvana  did  not  make  any 
objection,  of  course;  but  Ka])iton  declared,  in  the 
hearin<>-  oi'  all,  that  he  had  but  one  head,  and  not 
two  oi"  tlu-ee  lieads.  .  .  .  Gcnisim  i»azed  surlily 
and  swil'tly  at  e\erybody,  ne\er  left  the  maids' 
porch,  and,  apparently,  divined  that  something 
unpleasant  for  him  was  brewing.  The  assembled 
company  (among  them  ^vas  ])resent  the  old  butler, 
nicknamed  Uncle  Tail,  to  whom  all  res])ectfully 
turned  for  advice,  although  all  tlie\-  heard  from 
him  was  "  Yes!  yes!  yes!  ves!")  began,  by  wav 
of  precaution,  for  safety,  by  locking  Kapiton  up 
in  the  lumber-room  witli  the  filtering-machine 
and  set  to  thinking  hard.  Of  course,  it  was  easy 
to  resort  to  force;  but  God  forbid!  there  would 
be  a  row,  the  mistress  would  get  uneasy — and  a 
calamity  would  ensue!    What  was  to  be  done? 

They  thought  and  thought,  and  eventually  they 
hit  upon  something.  It  had  been  repeate(Hy  no- 
ticed that  Gerasim  could  not  abide  intoxicated 
persons.  .  .  .  As  he  sat  at  the  gate,  he  turned 
away  angrily  whenever  any  man  ^\  ith  a  load  of 
drink  aboard  passed  him  with  unsteady  steps,  and 
the  visor  of  his  ca])  over  his  ear.  They  decided 
to  instruct  Tatyana  to  ])retend  to  be  intoxicated, 
and  to  walk  past  (rcrjisim  reeling  and  staggering. 
The  pool-  girl  would  not  consent  for  a  long  time, 
l)ut  tiuy  ])revailed  upon  her;  moreover,  she  her- 
self saw  that  otherwise  she  would  not  be  able  to 

999 


^cl  rid  ol'  lic'i"  adorer.  Slic  did  it.  Ivapilon  was 
released  from  the  liiinber-rooni;  the  affair  eoii- 
ceriied  liiin,  anyhow.  Gerasini  was  sitting  on  the 
guard-stone  at  the  gate  and  jabbing  the  ground 
with  liis  shovel.  .  .  .  There  were  j^eople  staring 
at  him  from  round  all  the  corners,  from  behind 
the  window-shades.   .  .   . 

The  ruse  was  completely  successful.  When 
first  he  caught  sight  of  Tatyana,  he  nodded  his 
head  with  an  affectionate  bellow;  then  he  took 
a  closer  look,  dro])ped  his  shovel,  S2:)rang  to  his 
feet,  stepped  up  to  her,  put  liis  face  close  down 
to  her  face.  .  .  She  reeled  worse  than  ever  with 
terror,  and  closed  her  eves.  .  .  .  He  seized  her  bv 
the  arm,  dashed  the  whole  length  of  the  courtyard, 
and  entering  the  room  where  the  council  was  in 
session  with  her,  he  thrust  her  straight  at  Kapiton. 
Tatyana  was  fairly  swooning.  .  .  .  Gerasim  stood 
there,  glared  at  her,  Avaved  his  hand,  laughed,  and 
departed,  clumping  heavily  to  bis  little  den.  .  .  . 
For  four-and-twenty  hours  he  did  not  emerge 
thence.  Antipka,  the  postilion,  related  afterward 
how,  peeping  through  a  crack,  he  had  beheld 
Gerasim  seated  on  his  bed,  with  his  head  resting 
on  his  hand,  quietly,  peaceably,  and  only  bellow- 
ing from  time  to  time;  then  he  would  rock  him- 
self to  and  fro,  cover  his  eves,  and  shake  his 
head,  as  ])ostilions  or  stevedores  do  when  they 
strike  up  their  melancholy  chanteys.  iVnti])ka 
was  frightened,  and  he  retreated  from  the  crack. 

223 


.AIIMU 


Hiil  wlitn,  on  tlic  rollowln*^'  day,  G«mslni 
emerged  from  liis  den,  no  particular  eliange  was 
iiotieealile  in  him.  He  merely  seemed  to  liave 
heeome  more  surly,  and  paid  not  the  slightest  at- 
tention to  Tatyana  and  Kapiton.  On  that  same 
evening,  hoth  of  them,  with  geese  under  theii" 
arms,  wended  theii"  way  to  the  misti'ess,  and  a 
week  later  they  were  married.  On  the  wedding- 
day  itself,  (ierasim  did  not  alter  his  demeanour 
in  the  slightest  degree;  only,  he  returned  from 
the  river  without  water:  somehow ,  he  had  smashed 
tlie  cask  on  Ihe  I'oad ;  and  at  night,  in  the  stahle, 
he  so  y.ealously  curried  his  horse  that  the  animal 
reeled  like  a  hlade  of  grass  in  a  gale,  and  shifted 
from  foot  to  foot  under  his  iron  fists. 

AH  this  took  ])lace  in  the  spring.  ^Vnother 
year  passed,  in  tlie  course  of  which  Ka])fton  finally 
hecame  a  thorough-going  drunkard,  and  as  a  man 
utterly  unfit  for  anything,  was  des])atched  with 
the  train  of  freight-sledges  to  a  distant  \illage, 
togetlier  with  his  wife.  On  the  day  of  departure 
he  made  a  great  show  of  coui-age  at  first,  and  de- 
clared that,  no  niatter  where  they  might  send  him, 
even  to  the  j)lace  where  the  ])easant-wives  wasli 
shirts  and  put  their  clothes-heaters  in  the  sky,  he 
would  not  come  to  gi'ief:  ])nt  afterwai'd  he  he- 
came  low-sj)ii'ite(l,  hegan  to  complain  that  he  was 
heing  taken  to  uncivilised  peo])le,  and  finally 
weakened  to  such  a  degree  thai  he  was  unahle  even 
to  put  his  own  cap  on  his  head.     Some  compas- 

22Jj 


MUISIU 

sioiuite  soul  j)iillecl  it  down  on  his  brow,  ad.justed 
the  visor,  and  l)ani>c'd  it  down  on  toj).  iVnd  wlicn 
all    was   ready,   and   the    peasants   were   already 


I  *  * 


holding'  the  reins  in  their  hands,  and  oidy  waitin«>* 
for  the  word:  "  AVith  (xod's  hlessin<>!  "  Cxerasini 
emerged  from  his  tiny  ehamber,  a])])roaehed  Ta- 
tyana,  and  piesented  her  with  a  souvenir  con- 
sisting of  a  red  cotton  kerchief,  which  he  had 
bought  ex[)ressly  for  her  a  year  before.  Tatyana, 
who  up  to  that  moment  had  borne  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  her  life  with  great  ecjuanimity,  could  hold 
out  no  longer,  and  then  and  there  burst  into  tears, 
and,  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  cart,  exchanged 
three  kisses  with  Gerasim,  in  Christian  fashion.^ 
He  wanted  to  escort  her  to  the  town  barrier,  and 
at  first  walked  alongside  her  cart,  but  suddenly 
iialted  at  the  Crimean  Ford,  waved  his  hand  and 
directed  his  steps  along  the  river. 

This  happened  toward  evening.  lie  walked 
quietly,  and  stared  at  the  water.  Suddenly  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though  something  were  floun- 
dering in  the  ooze  close  to  the  bank.  He  bent 
down,  and  behcltl  a  small  pui)py,  white  witli  black 
spots,  which,  despite  all  its  endea\()urs,  utterly 
unable  to  crawl  out  of  the  water,  was  struggling, 
sli})ping,  and  (juivering  all  over  its  wet,  gaunt 
little  body.  Gerasim  gazed  at  the  unfortunate 
])up})y,  picked  it  u])  with  one  hand,  thrust  it  into 
his  breast,  and  set  out  with  great  strides  home- 

^These  kisses  are  bestowed  on  tlir  tlK-eks,  alternately.— Tkansi^tor. 

'1-15 


MU.ML 

Avard.  He  entered  his  little  den.  laid  tlic  reseued 
puppy  on  his  bed,  covered  it  with  liis  heavy  coat, 
ran  first  to  the  stable  for  straw,  then  to  the 
kitchen  for  a  cup  of  milk.  Cautiously  thr6wing 
back  the  coat  and  spreading  out  the  straw,  he 
jjlaced  the  milk  on  the  bed.  The  poor  little  dog 
was  only  three  weeks  old ;  it  had  only  recently  got 
its  eyes  open,  and  one  eye  even  appeared  to  be  a 
little  larger  than  the  other;  it  did  not  yet  know 
how  to  drink  out  of  a  cup,  and  merely  trembled 
and  blinked.  Gerasim  grasped  it  lightly  with 
two  fingers  by  the  head,  and  bent  its  muzzle  doMii 
to  the  milk.  The  dog  suddenly  began  to  drink 
greedily,  snorting,  shaking  itself  and  la])ping. 
Cierasim  gazed  and  gazed,  and  then  suddenly  be- 
gan to  laugh.  .  .  .  iVll  night  he  fussed  over  it, 
put  it  to  bed,  wiped  it  off,  and  at  last  fell  aslec]) 
himself  beside  it  in  a  joyous,  tran(|uil  slumber. 

Xo  mother  tends  her  infant  as  (ierasim  tended 
his  nursling.  (The  dog  proved  to  be  a  bitch.) 
In  the  beginning  she  was  very  weak,  ])uny,  and  ill- 
favoured,  but  little  by  little  she  improved  in  health 
and  looks,  and  at  the  end  of  eight  months,  thanks 
to  the  indefatigable  care  of  lier  rescuer,  she  liad 
turned  into  a  very  fair  sort  of  a  dog  of  wSj)anish 
breed,  with  long  ears,  a  feathery  tail  in  the  form 
of  a  trumpet,  and  large,  expressive  eyes.  She 
attached  herself  passionately  to  Gerasim,  never 
left  him  by  a  pace,  and  was  always  followiiig  him, 
wagging  liei-  tail.     And  he  had  gi\en  her  a  name, 

22() 


Air  MIT 

too,  — the  chinib  know  llial  tlicir  bellow  in^-  attracts 
other  people's  attention  to  them:  — he  ealled  her 
Mnnin.  All  tlie  people  in  the  house  took  a  liking 
to  her,  and  also  eaUed  hci-  dear  Httle  Mninn. 
Slie  was  extremely  intelligent.  I'awned  npon  every 
one.  l)nt  lo\  ed  (renisim  alone.  (ieiVisim  himself 
loved  her  madly  ....  and  it  was  disagreeable 
to  him  wlien  others  stroked  her:  whether  he  was 
afraid  for  her,  or  jealous  of  her— God  knows! 
She  waked  him  up  in  the  morning  by  tugging  at 
his  coat-tails;  she  led  to  him  by  the  reins  the  old 
water-horse,  with  wliom  she  dwelt  in  great  amity; 
with  importance  de])icted  on  her  face,  she  went 
with  him  to  the  river;  she  stood  ffuard  over  the 
brooms  and  shovels,  and  allowed  no  one  to  enter 
his  room.  He  cut  out  an  ajK'rture  in  his  door 
expressly  for  her,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  that  only 
in  Gerasim's  little  den  was  she  the  full  mistress, 
and  therefore,  on  entering  it,  with  a  look  of  satis- 
faction, she  immediately  leaped  upon  the  bed.  At 
night  she  did  not  slee])  at  all,  but  she  did  not 
bark  without  discernment,  like  a  stupid  watch- 
dog, which,  sitting  on  its  haunches  and  elevating 
its  mu///le,  and  shutting  its  eyes,  l)arks  simply 
out  f)f  tedium,  at  the  stars,  and  usually  three 
times  in  succession;  no!  Alumii's  shrill  voice  never 
resounded  without  cause!  Kither  a  stranger  was 
a])proaching  too  close  to  the  fence,  or  some  sus- 
picious jioise  or  i-nstling  had  arisen  somewhere. 
...    In  a  word,  she  ke])t  capital  watch. 

227 


MVMV 

Truth  to  ttll.  lliire  was.  in  addition  to  her,  an 
old  dog  in  the  courtyai'd.  yellow  in  hue  speekled 
with  dark  hrown,  Pe<4-to{)  hy  name  [Volichnk)  ; 
hut  that  doi»'  was  never  unehained,  ex  tii  l)y  ni«>ht, 
and  he  himself,  owin^'  to  liis  deere])itude,  did 
not  demand  freedom.  l)ut  lay  there,  eurled  \\\)  in 
his  kennel,  and  only  no^^  and  then  emitted  a 
hoarse,  almost  soundless  hark,  whieh  he  immedi- 
ately hroke  off  short,  as  thouoh  himself  conseious 
of  its  utter  futility. 

]Mumu  did  not  enter  the  manor-house,  and  when 
Gerasim  carried  wood  to  the  rooms  she  always 
remained  hehind  and  impatiently  awaited  liini, 
with  ears  prieked  up,  and  her  head  turniuiJ-  now 
to  the  riffht,  then  suddenly  to  the  left,  at  the 
slightest  noise  indoors.   .  .  . 

In  this  manner  still  another  year  passed.  Gera- 
sim continued  to  discharge  his  avocations  as  yard- 
jjorter  and  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  lot, 
when  sudderdy  an  unexpected  incident  occurred. 
.  .  .  Namely,  one  fine  summer  day  the  mistress, 
with  her  hangers-on,  was  walking  ahout  the  draw- 
ing-room. She  Mas  in  good  spirits,  and  was  laugh- 
ing and  jesting;  the  hangers-on  were  laughing 
and  jesting  also,  hut  felt  no  ])artieular  mirth;  the 
people  of  the  household  were  not  very  fond  of  see- 
ing the  mistress  in  merry  mood.  ])ecause,  in  the 
iirst  place,  at  such  times  she  demanded  instan- 
taneous and  com])lete  symi)athy  IVom  every  one, 
and  flew  into  a  rage  if  ihei-e  was  a  face  which 

228 


MUMU 

did  not  beam  witli  satisfaction;  and,  in  tlit*  sec- 
ond place,  these  fits  did  not  last  very  lon^-,  and 
were  generally  succeeded  by  a  gloomy  and  cross- 
grained  frame  of  mind.  On  that  day,  slie  seemed 
to  have  got  uj)  ha]>})ily;  at  cards,  slie  held  four 
knaves:  the  fulfilment  of  desire  (she  always  told 
fortunes  with  the  cards  in  the  morning),  —  and 
her  tea  struck  her  as  particularly  delicious,  in 
consequence  whereof  the  maid  received  ])raise  in 
words  and  ten  kopeks  in  money.  With  a  sweet 
smile  on  her  wrinkled  lips,  the  lady  of  the  house 
strolled  about  her  drawing-room  and  approached 
the  window.  A  flower-garden  was  laid  out  in 
front  of  the  window,  and  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
border,  under  a  rose-bush,  lay  Mimui  assiduously 
gnawing  a  bone.  The  mistress  caught  sight  of 
her. 

"  ]My  (rod!"  —  she  suddenly  exclaimed;  — 
"  what  dog  is  tliat?  " 

The  hanger-on  whom  the  mistress  addressed 
floundered,  poor  creature,  with  that  ])ainful  un- 
easiness wliich  generally  takes  possession  of  a 
dependent  person  when  he  does  not  quite  know 
how  he  is  to  understand  his  su])erior's  excla- 
mation. 

"  1  .  .  .  (1  .  .  do  ....  on  t  know ,  ma  am," 
she  stammered;  "  1  think  it  belongs  to  the  dumb 
man." 

''  jNIv  (iod!"  —  liei"  uiistfcss  iiilrri-iii)t((i  lirr:  — 
"why,  it  is  a  xvvy   pi'elly   dog!     ()i(i(i-  it    to  be 

*■  *•  i/ 


MU^NIU 

broii|^lit  liitlicr.  Has  he  had  it  loii^-^  TTow  is  it 
that  I  liavt'  not  seen  it  before!'  .  .  .  Order  it  to 
be  brought  liither.'' 

The  haimer-on  ininie(hatelv  fluttered  out  into 
the  anteroom. 

"  jNIan,  man!  "  —  she  screamed,  —  "  brint^'  ^lumi'i 
here  at  once!    She  is  in  the  flower-garden." 

"  And  so  her  name  is  ^Iimu'i,"  —  said  tlie  mis- 
tress;—  "a  very  nice  name." 

"  Alvh,  very  nice  indeed,  ma'am!"  —  replied 
the  dependent.  —  "Be  quick,  Stepan!" 

Stepan,  a  sturdy  young  fellow,  who  served  as 
footman,  rushed  headlong  to  the  garden  and  tried 
to  seize  ]Mumu;  but  the  latter  cleverly  slipped  out 
of  his  fingers,  and  elevating  her  tail,  set  off  at 
full  gallop  to  Gerasim.  who  was  in  tlie  kitchen 
beating  out  and  shaking  out  the  water-cask,  twirl- 
ing it  about  in  his  hands  like  a  child's  drum.  Ste- 
pan ran  after  her,  and  tried  to  seize  her  at  the  very 
feet  of  her  master;  ])ut  the  agile  dog  would  not 
surrender  herself  into  the  hands  of  a  stranger, 
and  ke])t  k'a])ing  and  evading  him.  (rcnisim 
looked  on  at  all  this  tumult  with  a  <»i-iii:  at  last 
Ste])an  rose  in  wrath,  and  hastily  gave  him  to 
understand  by  signs  that  the  misti'ess  had  ordered 
the  dog  to  be  brought  to  hei".  (xei-asim  was  some- 
what surprised,  but  he  called  Mumu,  lifted  her 
from  the  ground,  and  handed  her  to  Ste|)an.  Ste- 
pan carried  her  into  the  diawing-room.  and  |)Iace(l 
her   on   the   polished    wood    floor.      Tlie    mistress 

230 


i 


MTMU 

bewail  lo  call  tlic  do^  lo  her  in  a  carcssinp^  voice. 
Miimu,  wlio  had  never  in  liei-  life  heen  in  sneh 
nia<4nilieenl  i-oonis,  was  extremely  f'i'i<4htene(l, 
and  tried  to  dai-t  thr()u<>ii  the  door,  hut.  rehufVed 
hy  the  obsequious  Stepan,  fell  to  trembling,  and 
crouched  against  the  wall. 

"  Mimiu,  Mumu,  come  hither  to  me,"  — said 
tbe  mistress;  —  "come,  thou  stu))i(l  ei-eatnre  .  .  .  . 
don't  be  afraid.   .  .  ." 

"Come,  INlumu,  come  to  the  mistress,"  -re- 
peated the  dependents;  —  "  come!  " 

But  INIumu  looked  anxiously  about  and  did  not 
stir  from  the  spot. 

"  Bring  her  something  to  eat,"  — said  the  mis- 
tress.— "  AVhat  a  stupid  thing  she  is!  wShe  won't 
come  to  the  mistress.    AVhat  is  she  afraid  of?  " 

"  She  feels  strange  still,"  —  remarked  one  of  the 
dependents,  in  a  timid  and  imploring  voice. 

Stepan  brought  a  saucer  of  milk  and  set  it  in 
front  of  ]Mumii,  but  INlumu  did  not  even  smell  of 
the  milk,  and  kept  on  trembling  and  ga/ing  about 
her,  as  before. 

"  Akh,  who  ever  saw  such  a  creature!"  —  said 
the  mistress,  as  she  approached  her,  bent  down 
and  was  on  the  point  of  stroking  hei-;  but  INlumu 
turned  her  head  and  displayed  her  teeth  in  a  snarl. 
—  The  mistress  hastily  drew  back  her  hand. 

A  momentary  silence  ensued.  INIuniii  whined 
faintly,  as  though  complaining  and  excusing  hei-- 
self.  .   .  The    mistress    retreated    and    frowned. 

231 


riie  (log's  sudden  movement  had  fiiglilened 
her. 

"Akh!"  —  cried  all  the  dependents  witli  one 
accord:  — "She  did  n't  ])ite  you,  did  she?  (rod 
f'or})id!''  (Mumii  had  never  hitten  anv  one  in 
her  life.)     ''Akhlakli!" 

'■  Take  hei-  away,"  —  said  the  old  woman,  in  an 
altered  voice,  — "  the  horrid  little  dog!  What  a 
vicious  heast  she  is!  " 

And  slowly  turning,  she  went  toward  her  bou- 
doir. The  dependents  exchanged  timorous 
ghinees  and  started  to  follow  her,  hut  she 
paused,  looked  coldly  at  them,  said:  "  AVhy  do 
you  do  that?  for  1  have  not  hidden  you,"  and  left 
the  room. 

The  dependents  waved  their  hands  in  despair  at 
Stepan;  the  latter  picked  up  ]Mumu  and  flung 
her  out  into  the  yard  as  speedily  as  possible, 
straight  at  Gerasim's  feet ;  and  half  an  hour  later 
a  profound  stillness  reigned  in  the  liouse,  and  the 
old  gentlewoman  sat  on  her  divan  more  loweriiig 
than  a  thunder-cloud. 

^Vhat  trifles,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  can 
sometimes  put  a  person  out  of  tune ! 

The  lady  was  out  of  sorts  until  evening,  talked 
with  no  one,  did  not  play  cards,  and  passed  a  bad 
night.  She  took  it  into  her  liead  that  they  had 
not  given  lier  the  same  can  dc  cologne  whicli  they 
usually  gave  her,  that  lier  pillow  smelled  of  soap, 
and  made   the  keeper  of  the  linen-closet   smell 

232 


MUMU 

all  the  bed-linen  twice,  —  in  a  word,  she  was 
upset  and  extremely  incensed.  On  the  follow- 
ing morning  she  ordered  Gavrila  to  l)e  sum- 
moned to  her  presence  an  hour  earlier  than 
usual. 

"Tell  me,  please," — she  began,  as  soon  as  the 
latter,  not  without  some  inward  quaking,  had 
crossed  the  threshold  of  her  boudoir,  — "  why  that 
dog  was  barking  in  om-  courtyard  all  night  long? 
It  prevented  my  getting  to  sleep!  " 

"  A  dog,  ma'am  .  ,  .  .  which  one,  ma'am?  .  .  . 
Perhaps  it  was  the  dumb  man's  dog," — he  uttered 
in  a  voice  that  was  not  altogether  firm. 

"  I  don't  know  whetlier  it  belongs  to  the  dumb 
man  or  to  some  one  else,  only  it  interfered  with 
my  sleep.  And  I  am  amazed  that  there  is  sucli  a 
horde  of  dogs!  I  want  to  know  about  it.  \Ve 
have  a  Match-dog,  have  we  not?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  we  have,  ma'am,  Peg-top, 
ma'am." 

"  AVell,  what  need  have  we  for  any  more  dogs? 
Thev  only  create  disorder.  There  's  no  head  to 
the  house, — that  's  wliat  's  tlie  matter.  xVnd  what 
does  the  dumb  juan  want  of  a  dog?  AN'ho  lias 
given  him  permission  to  keep  a  dog  in  my  court- 
yard? Yesterday  I  went  to  the  window,  and  it 
was  lying  in  the  garden;  it  had  brought  some 
nasty  thing  there,  and  was  gnawing  it, — and  I 
have  roses  planted  there.  .  .  ." 

The  lady  paused  for  a  wliile. 


MUMU 

"  See  that  it  is  removed  this  vei\  day  .... 
dost  hear  me?  " 

"  I  obey,  ma'am." 

"  This  ^•e^y  day.  And  now,  go.  1  will  have 
thee  called  for  thy  report  later." 

Gavrila  left  the  room. 

As  he  passed  throuoh  the  drawing-room,  the 
major-domo  transferred  a  small  hell  from  one 
table  to  another,  for  show,  softly  blew  his  duek's- 
bill  nose  in  the  hall,  and  went  out  into  the  ante- 
room. In  the  anteroom,  on  a  locker,  Stepan  ^^•as 
sleeping  in  the  attitude  of  a  slain  warrior  in  a 
battalion  picture,  with  his  bare  legs  ])rojecting 
from  his  coat,  which  served  him  in  lieu  of  a  cov- 
erlet. 

The  major-domo  nudged  him,  and  im|)arted 
to  him  in  an  undertone  some  order,  to  which 
Stepan  replied  witii  a  half -yawn,  half-laugh.  The 
major-domo  witlulrew,  and  Stepan  sprang  to  his 
feet,  drew^  on  his  kaftan  and  his  boots,  went  out 
and  came  to  a  stajidstill  on  the  porcli.  Five  min- 
utes had  not  elapsed  ])efore  (rerasim  made  his  ap- 
pearance with  a  huge  fagot  of  firewood  on  his 
back,  accompanied  by  his  inseparable  Mumu. 
(The  mistress  had  issued  oi'dei's  that  her  bed- 
room and  boudoir  were  to  be  heated  even  in  sum- 
mer.) (ierasim  stood  sideways  to  the  door,  gave 
it  a  push  with  his  shoulder,  and  ])reci])itate(l  him- 
self into  the  house  with  his  bnrden.  Mumu,  ac- 
cording to  her  wont,  remained  behind  to  wait  for 

234 


MTMr 

liiin.  Tlicn  Stcpan,  seizing  a  favourable  mo- 
ment, made  a  sudden  dash  at  her,  like  a  hawk 
pouncing  on  a  eliiekejj,  crushed  her  to  the  ground 
with  his  breast,  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms,  and 
M'itliout  stop])ing  to  don  so  mucii  as  his  ea]),  ran 
out  into  tlie  street  with  her,  jum])ed  into  the  first 
drozhky  that  eame  to  hand,  and  gallo|)e(l  off  to 
the  (ianie  ^Market.  There  he  speedily  hunted  up 
a  purchaser,  to  whom  he  sold  her  f'oi-  half  a  ruble, 
stipulating  only  that  the  latter  should  keep  her 
tied  up  for  at  least  a  week,  and  immediately  re- 
turned home;  but  before  he  reached  the  house, 
he  alighted  from  the  drozhky,  and  making  a  cir- 
cuit of  the  house,  he  lea]ied  ovei*  the  fence  into 
the  yard  from  a  back  alley;  he  was  afraid  to  enter 
by  the  wicket,  lest  he  should  encounter  Gerasim. 
But  his  anxiety  was  wasted;  Gerasim  was  no 
longer  in  the  courtyard.  On  coming  out  of  the 
house  he  had  instanth'  bethought  himself  of 
jNIumu ;  he  could  not  remember  that  she  had  ever 
failed  to  await  his  return,  and  he  began  to  run 
in  every  direction  to  hunt  for  her,  to  call  her  after 
his  own  fashion  ...  he  dashed  into  his  little 
chamber,  to  the  hay-loft:  he  darted  into  tiie  street, 
—  hither  and  thither.  .  .  .  She  was  gone!  Pleap- 
])ealed  to  the  domestics,  with  the  most  despairing- 
signs  inquired  about  her:  pointing  fourteen  inches 
from  the  ground,  he  drew  her  form  with  liis 
hands.  .  .  .  Some  of  them  really  did  not  know 
what  had  become  of  JNIumu,  and  only  shook  their 

23.5 


MIMT 

heads;  otliers  did  know  and  grinned  at  liini  in 
reply,  but  the  major-domo  assumed  a  very  pom- 
pous mien  and  began  to  sliout  at  the  coachmen. 
Then  Gerasim  fled  far  away  from  the  coiu'tyard. 

Twihght  was  ah'cady  falhng  wlicn  lie  retui'ned. 
One  was  justified  in  assuming,  from  his  exhausted 
aspect,  from  his  unsteady  gait,  from  liis  dusty 
clothing,  that  he  had  wandered  over  the  half  of 
Moscow.  Pie  halted  in  front  of  the  mistress's 
windows,  swept  a  glance  over  the  porch  on  which 
seven  house-serfs  were  gathered,  turned  away, 
and  bellowed  once  more:  "  ^Mumii!  "  — Mumii  did 
not  res})ond.  He  went  away.  All  stared  after 
him,  but  no  one  smiled,  no  one  uttered  a  word 
.  .  .  and  the  curious  postilion,  Anti])ka,  narrated 
on  the  following  morning  in  the  kitchen,  that  the 
dumb  man  had  moaned  all  night  long. 

All  the  following  day  Gerasim  did  not  show 
himself,  so  that  Potap  the  coachman  was  obliged 
to  go  for  water  in  his  stead,  which  greatly  dis- 
pleased coachman  Potap.  The  mistress  asked 
Gavrila  whether  her  command  had  been  executed. 
Gavrfla  replied  that  it  had.  The  next  morning 
Gerasim  emerged  from  his  chamber  to  df)  his 
work.  He  came  to  dinner,  ate  and  went  off 
again,  without  having  exchanged  greetings  with 
any  one.  His  face,  which  was  inanimate  at  the 
best  of  times,  as  is  the  case  with  all  deaf  and 
dumb  persons,  now  seemed  to  have  become  abso- 
lutely petrified.     iVfter  dinner  he  again  quitted 

2;3() 


xMUMl 

the  courtyard,  hut  not  for  long,  returned  and 
inime(hately  chrected  liis  steps  to  the  hay-l)arri. 
Night  eanie,  a  elear,  niooiilight  night.  Sigliing 
heavily  and  ineessantlv  tossing  from  side  to  side, 
(rerasiiH  was  lying  there,  ^vhen  he  sud(leid\' 
felt  as  though  something  were  tugging  at  the 
skirts  of  his  garments;  he  treml)le(l  all  over,  hut 
did  not  raise  his  head,  nevertheless,  and  even 
screwed  his  eyes  up  tight;  hut  the  tugging  was 
re})eated,  more  energetically  than  hefore;  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  ....  hefore  him,  with  a  frag- 
ment of  rope  ahout  her  neck,  oNIumu  was  ca])ering 
ahout.  A  prolonged  shriek  of  joy  hurst  from  his 
speechless  hreast;  he  seized  Mumu  and  clasped 
her  in  a  close  emhrace;  in  ojie  moment  she  had 
licked  his  nose,  his  eyes,  and  his  heard.  .  .  lie 
stood  still  for  a  while,  ])on(lering,  cautiously 
slij)ped  down  from  the  hay-mow,  cast  a  glance 
round  him,  and  having  made  sure  that  no  one  was 
watching  him,  he  safely  regained  his  little 
chamher. 

Kven  hefore  this  Cierasim  had  divined  that  the 
dog  had  not  disappeared  of  her  ow  n  volition;  that 
she  must  have  heen  eai'ried  away  hy  the  mistress's 
command;  for  the  domestics  had  exj)laine(l  to 
him  hy  signs  how  his  Mumu  had  sna])ped  at  her 
—  and  he  decided  to  take  precautions  of  his  own. 
First  he  fed  ^Fumu  with  some  hi-ead,  caressed  her, 
and  j)u1  her  lo  hed  ;  then  he  hi'gan  to  consider  how 
he  might  hest  conceal  her.     At   last  he  hit  upon 

237 


JNIUMU 

tlie  idea  of  leaving  her  all  day  in  his  room,  and 
only  looking  in  now  and  then  to  see  how  she  was 
getting  along,  and  taking  her  ont  for  exercise 
at  night.  lie  closed  the  opening  in  his  door  com- 
j)actly  hy  stnffing  in  an  old  coat  of  his,  and  as 
soon  as  it  was  daylight  he  was  in  the  courtyard, 
as  tliough  nothing  had  happened,  even  ])reserving 
(innocent  guile!)  his  former  dejection  of  coun- 
tenance. It  could  not  enter  the  head  of  the  poor 
deaf  man  that  ^Nluniu  would  hetray  herself  by  her 
^^•hining;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  every  one  in  the 
house  was  speedily  aware  that  the  dumb  man's  dog 
had  come  back  and  Avas  locked  up  in  his  room; 
but  out  of  compassion  for  him  and  for  her,  and 
])artly.  perhaps,  out  of  fear  of  him,  they  did  not 
give  him  to  understand  that  his  secret  had  been 
discovered. 

The  major-domo  alone  scratched  the  back  of 
his  head  and  waved  his  hand  in  des])air,  as  much 
as  to  say:  "  ^Vell,  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  mat- 
ter! Perhai)s  the  mistress  will  not  get  to  know 
of  it!"  And  never  had  the  dumb  man  worked 
so  zealously  as  on  that  day;  he  swept  and  scra])ed 
out  the  entire  courtyard,  he  rooted  u|)  all  the 
blades  of  grass  to  tlie  very  last  one,  with  his  own 
hand  ])ulled  up  all  the  ])rops  in  the  garden-fence, 
with  a  view  to  making  sure  that  they  were  suffi- 
ciently firm,  and  then  hammered  them  in  again, 
—  in  a  word,  he  fussed  and  bustled  al)out  so,  that 
even  the  mistress  noticed  his  zeal. 

238 


Twice  in  the  course  of  the  day  (Tenisiin  went 
stealthily  to  his  captive;  and  when  night  came, 
he  lay  down  to  slee])  in  her  coni])any.  in  the  little 
room,  not  in  the  hay-barn,  and  only  at  one  o'clock 
did  he  go  out  to  take  a  stroll  with  her  in  the  fresh 
air.  ITaA  ing  walked  quite  a  long  time  with  her 
in  the  courtyard,  he  was  i)re])aring  to  return, 
when  suddenly  a  noise  resounded  outside  the 
fence  in  tlie  direction  of  the  alley.  Mumu  ])ricked 
up  her  ears,  began  to  growl,  approached  the  fence, 
sniffed,  and  broke  fortli  into  a  loud  and  piercing 
bark.  Some  drunken  man  or  other  had  taken 
it  into  his  head  to  nestle  down  there  for  the  night. 
At  that  \ery  moment,  the  mistress  had  just  got 
to  sleep  after  a  prolonged  "  nervous  excitement  " ; 
she  always  had  these  excited  fits  after  too  hearty 
a  su])per.  The  sudden  barking  woke  her;  her 
heart  began  to  beat  violently,  and  to  colla])se. 

"  Maids,    maids!  "  —  she    moaned.  —  "  Maids!  " 

The  frightened  maids  Hew  to  her  bedroom. 

"  Okli.  okh,  I  'm  dying!  "  —  said  slie,  throwing 
her  hands  apart  in  anguish.  — "  Tliere  s  that  dog 
again,  again!  .  .  .  Okh,  send  for  the  doctor! 
They  want  to  kill  me.  .  .  The  dog,  the  dog  again ! 
Okh!" 

iVnd  she  Hung  back  her  head,  which  was  in- 
tended to  denote  a  swoon. 

They  ran  for  the  doctor,  that  is  to  say,  for  the 
household  medical  man,  Khariton.  The  whole 
art  of  this  healer  consisted  in  the  I'Mct  thai  he  wore 


MUMU 

boots  with  soft  soles,  understood  how  to  feel  the 
pulse  delicately,  slept  fourteen  hours  out  of  the 
twenty-four,  spent  the  rest  of  the  time  in  sighing, 
and  was  incessantly  treating  the  mistress  to  laurel 
drops.  This  healer  immediately  hastened  to  lier, 
fumigated  with  burnt  feathers,  and  when  the  mis- 
tress opened  her  eyes,  immediately  ])resented  to 
her  on  a  silver  tray  a  wine-glass  with  the  inevitable 
drops. 

The  mistress  took  them,  but  immediately,  with 
tearful  eyes,  began  to  complain  of  the  dog,  of 
Gavrila,  of  her  lot,  that  she,  a  poor  old  woman, 
had  been  abandoned  bv  everv  one,  that  no  one  had 
any  pity  on  her,  and  that  every  one  desired  her 
death.  In  the  meantime  the  imluck}'  JMumii  con- 
tinued to  bark,  while  Gerasim  strove  in  vain  to  call 
her  away  from  the  fence. 

"  There  .  .  .  there  ....  it  goes  again!  .  .  ." 
stammered  the  mistress,  and  again  rolled  up  her 
eyes.  The  medical  man  whisjDered  to  one  of 
the  maids;  she  rushed  into  the  anteroom,  and 
explained  matters  to  Step<in:  the  latter  ran  to 
awaken  Gavi-fla,  and  Gavrila,  in  a  passion,  gave 
orders  that  the  whole  household  should  be  roused. 

Cienisim  turned  round,  beheld  the  twinkling- 
lights  and  shadows  in  the  windows,  and,  fore- 
boding in  his  heart  a  catastro|)he,  lie  caught  up 
iSIumu  under  his  arm,  ran  into  his  room  and 
locked  the  dooi*.  A  few  moments  later,  five  men 
were  thumping  at   his  dooi-,  I)iit   I'eeliiig  the  re- 

2  Li) 


MUMI"^ 

sistance  of  the  bolt,  (k'slstcd.  (Tavrila  ran  iij)  in  a, 
frightful  hurry,  ordered  them  all  to  remain  there 
until  morning  and  stand  guard,  while  he  liimself 
hurst  into  the  maids'  hall  and  gave  orders  thi'ough 
the  eldest  eom])anion,  Liuhoff' '  Liuhimovna,  -  to- 
gether with  whom  lie  was  in  the  habit  ol'  stealing 
and  enjoying  tea,  sugar,  and  other  groceries, — 
that  the  mistress  was  to  be  informed  that  the  dog, 
unfortunately,  had  run  home  again  from  some- 
where or  other,  but  that  it  would  not  be  alive  on 
the  morrow,  and  that  the  mistress  must  do  them 
the  favour  not  to  be  angry,  and  must  calm  down. 
The  mistress  probably  would  not  have  calmed 
down  very  speedily,  had  not  the  medical  man,  in 
liis  haste,  poured  out  forty  drops  instead  of 
twelve.  The  strength  of  the  laurel  took  its  effect 
—  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  mistress  was  sleep- 
ing soundly  and  peacefully,  and  Gerasim  was 
lying,  all  pale,  on  his  bed,  tightly  compressing 
^Nlumii's  mouth. 

On  the  following  morning  the  mistress  awoke 
(piite  late.  Gavrila  was  waiting  for  her  awaken- 
ing in  order  to  make  a  decisive  attack  upon  Geni- 
sim's  asylum,  and  was  himself  ])repared  to  endure 
a  heavy  thundei'-storm.  I^ut  the  thunder-storm 
did  not  come  off.  As  she  lay  In  bed,  the  mistress 
ordered  the  eldest  de])endent  to  be  called  to  her. 

"  Ijiuboff  Liuhimovna,"  —  she  began  in  a  soft, 
iveak  voice:   she  sometimes   liked   to   pretend    to 

^  Amy  or  Charity-  —  Tkaxslaimk. 

241 


MTMr 

be  a  2^<-*i"s<-'<^iite(l  and  (k-rcncclcss  sufferer:  It  is 
needless  to  state  that  at  sueh  times  all  the  peoi)le 
in  the  liouse  felt  vciy  uneonii'ortahlc:  "  I.inbofi' 
Liul)iniovna,  you  see  what  my  eondition  is: 
<>•(),  inv  dear,  to  (ia^■rlla  Andreiteh.  and  liave 
a  talk  with  him:  it  eannot  he  possible  that  some 
nasty  little  dog  or  other  is  more  preeious  to 
him  than  the  ti-an()nillity.  the  very  life  of  his 
mistress!  I  should  not  like  to  believe  that,"  — 
she  added,  with  an  expression  of  ])rofound  emcv 
tion:  — "  Go,  my  dear,  be  so  good,  go  to  Gavrila 
Andreiteh." 

Liuboff  I.iubimovna  betook  herself  to  (ra- 
vrila's  room.  A\'hat  eonversation  took  ])laee  be- 
tween them  is  not  known ;  but  a  while  later  a 
whole  throng  of  domesties  marelied  tlirough  the 
courtyard  in  the  direction  of  Gerasims  little  den: 
in  front  walked  Gavrila,  holding  on  his  ca])  w  ith 
his  hand,  although  there  was  no  wind:  around 
him  M'alked  footmen  and  eooks:  T"^ncle  Tail  gazed 
out  of  the  window,  and  issued  orders — tliat  is  to 
say,  he  merely  spread  his  hands  a]3art:  in  the  rear 
of  all,  the  small  urchins  leaped  and  cajDered,  one 
half  of  them  being  strangers  wlio  had  run  in.  On 
the  narrow  stairway  leading  to  the  den  sat  one 
sentry:  at  the  door  stood  two  others  with  clubs. 
They  began  to  ascend  the  staircase,  and  occujiied 
it  to  its  full  length,  (ravrila  went  to  the  door, 
knocked  on  it  with  his  fist,  and  shouted: 

''Open!" 

242 


A  suppressed  bark  made  itself  aiidil)le;  bui 
there  was  no  reply. 

"  Open,  I  say!  " — he  repeated. 
"  But,  Gavrila  Andreiteb," — remarked  Ste))aii 
from  below:  —  "  he  's  deaf,  you  know — he  does  n't 
I)  ear. 

All  burst  out  laujibiiig. 

"  What  is  to  be  done?  " — retorted  Gavrila  from 
the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"  Why,  he  has  a  hole  in  his  door," — replied 
vSte^Jan;  — "  so  do  you  wiggle  a  stick  around  in  it 
a  bit." 

Gavrila  bent  down. 

"  He  has  stuffed  it  up  with  some  sort  of  coat, 
that  hole." 

"  But  do  you  poke  tlic  coat  inward." 
xVt  this  j)oint  another  dull  bark  I'ang  out. 
"  wSee   there,    see   there,   she   's   giving   herself 
away!"  —  some  one  remarked  in  the  crowd,  and 
again  there  was  laughter. 

Gavrila  scratched  behind  liis  ear. 
"  Xo,  brother,"  —  he  went  on  at  last;  — ''  do  tliou 
poke  the  coat  throiigli  thyself,  ii'  llion  \vishest." 
"AVhy,  certainly!'' 

And  Stepiin  scrambled  u]),  took  a  stick,  thiiist 
the  coat  inside,  and  began  to  wiggle  tlic  slick 
about  in  the  o])ening,  saying:  "  Come  forth,  come 
forth!"  He  was  still  wiggling  the  stic-k  when 
the  door  of  the  little  chamber  Hew  suddenlv  and 
swiftly   open — and   the    whole   train    of   menials 

24-3 


Ml.MU 

rolled  head  over  heels  down  the  stairs,  Gavrila  in 
the  lead.     Uncle  Tail  shut  the  window. 

"  Come,  come,  come,  come!  "—shouted  Gavrila 
from  the  courtyard; — "  just  look  out,  look  out!  " 

Gerasim  stood  motionless  on  the  threshold. 
The  crowd  assembled  at  the  foot  of  the  stiiircase. 
Gerasim  stared  at  all  these  petty  folk  in  their 
foreign  kaftans  from  above,  \vith  his  arms  lightly 
set  akimbo;  in  his  scarlet  peasant  shirt  he  seemed 
like  a  giant  in  comparison  with  them.  Gavrila 
advanced  a  pace. 

"See  here,  brother,"  —  said  he:  —  "I  '11  take 
none  of  thy  impudence." 

And  he  began  to  explain  to  him  by  signs:  "  The 
mistress  insists  upon  having  thy  dog:  hand  it  over 
instantly,  or  't  will  be  the  worse  for  thee." 

Gerasim  looked  at  him,  pointed  to  the  dog, 
made  a  sign  with  his  hand  at  his  own  neck,  as 
though  he  were  drawing  up  a  noose,  and  cast  an 
inquiring  glance  at  the  major-domo. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  —  replied  the  latter,  nodding  his 
head; — "  yes,  she  insists." 

Gerasim  dropped  his  eyes,  then  suddenly 
shook  Jiimself,  again  pointed  at  JNlumu,  who  all 
this  time  had  been  standing  by  his  side,  innocently 
wagging  her  tail  and  moving  her  ears  to  and  fro 
with  curiosity,  repeated  the  sign  of  strangling 
over  his  own  neck,  and  significantly  smote  him- 
self on  the  breast,  as  though  declaring  that  he 
would  take  it  u]ion  himself  to  annihilate  Munii'i. 

24i 


Ml  Ml' 

"  Rut  tlioii  wilt  deceive,"— waved  (iavrila  tc 
liiin  in  reply. 

Genisini  looked  at  him,  laughed  disdainfully, 
smote  himself  again  on  the  breast,  and  slammed 
the  door. 

All  ])resent  exchanged  glances  in  silence. 

"  AVell,  and  what  's  the  meaning  of  this?  "— 
began  Gavnla.  — "  He  has  locked  himself  in." 

"  I^et  him  alone,  Gavrila  Andreitch,"  — said 
Stepan;  — "he  '11  do  it,  if  he  has  promised. 
That  's  the  sort  of  fellow  he  is.  ...  If  he  once 
promises  a  thing,  it  's  safe.  He  is  n't  like  us 
folks    in    that   respect.      Wind   is   true   is   true. 

es. 

"  Yes,"  — repeated  all,  and  wagged  their  heads. 
—  "  That 's  so.    Yes." 

Uncle  Tail  opened  the  window  and  said  "  Yes," 
also. 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,  I  suppose,"  —  returned 
Gavrila; — "  but  the  guard  is  not  to  be  removed, 
notwithstanding.  Hey,  there,  Eroshka!"— he 
added,  addressing  a  ])oor  man  in  a  yellow  nankeen 
kazak  coat,  who  was  reckoned  as  the  gardener:  — 
"  what  hast  thou  to  do?  Take  a  stick  and  sit  here, 
and  if  anything  ha])pens,  run  for  me  on  the  in- 
stant." 

Kroshka  took  a  stick  and  sat  down  on  the  last 
step  of  the  staircase.  The  crowd  dispersed,  witli 
the  exception  of  a  few  curious  bodies  and  the 
small  urchins,  while  Gavrila  returned  home,  and 

'2i5 


AFTMr 

lliioiigli  TJubofl'  TJii])iiii()\  na  gave  orders  that  tlie 
mistress  should  he  informed  that  everythiii<>'  had 
been  done,  and  tliat  he  himself,  in  order  to  make 
quite  sure,  liad  sent  the  postilion  for  a  policeman. 
The  mistress  tied  a  knot  in  her  jiandkerehief, 
poured  can  de  cologne  on  it,  sniffed  at  it,  wiped 
her  temples,  sipped  her  tea  and,  being  still  under 
the  influence  of  the  laurel  drops,  fell  asleep  again. 

iVn  hour  after  all  this  commotion,  the  door  of 
the  tiny  den  o])ened  and  Gerasim  made  his  aj)- 
pearance.  He  wore  a  new  holiday  kaftan;  he 
was  leading  ^Nlimiii  by  a  string.  Eroshka  drew 
aside  and  let  him  pass.  Gerasim  directed  his  way 
toward  the  gate.  All  the  small  boys  who  were 
in  the  courtyard  followed  him  with  their  eyes 
in  silence.  He  did  not  even  turn  round;  he  did 
not  put  on  his  cap  until  he  reached  the  street. 
Cravrila  despatched  after  him  that  same  Eroshka. 
in  the  capacity  of  observer.  Eroshka,  perceiving 
from  afar  that  he  had  entered  an  eating-house  in 
company  with  his  dog,  awaited  his  reappearance. 

In  the  eating-house  thev  knew  Gerasim  and 
understood  his  signs.  He  ordered  cabbage-soup 
with  meat,  and  seated  himself,  with  his  arms 
resting  on  the  table.  Mumu  stood  beside  his 
chair,  calmly  gazing  at  him  with  her  intelligent 
eyes.  Her  coat  was  fairly  shining  with  gloss:  it 
was  evident  that  she  had  recently  been  brushed. 
They  brought  the  cabbage-soup  to  (rcrasim.  He 
ci'umbled  u])  liread   in   it,  Cut  the  meat  up  into 

24-6 


MUxMU 

small  pieces,  aiul  set  the  plate  on  thcflooi-.  Mimiu 
began  to  eat  with  her  eiistoinarv  politeness,  liardly 
touching  hei-  luuzzle  to  the  food;  (iei'asini  stared 
long  at  hei-;  two  heavy  tears  rolled  suddenly  from 
his  eyes;  one  fell  on  the  dog-'s  sloping  I'oreliead, 
the  other  into  the  sou]).  lie  covered  his  face  with 
his  hand,  ^lumi'i  ate  half  a  j)lateful  and  retired, 
licking  liei-  chops,  (rerasim  rose,  paid  foi-  the 
soup,  and  set  out,  accompanied  by  the  somewhat 
astounded  glance  of  the  waiter.  Kroshka,  on 
catching  sight  of  Genisim,  sprang  round  the  cor- 
ner, and  allowing  him  to  pass,  again  set  out  on  his 
track. 

Genisim  walked  on  without  haste,  and  did  not 
release  ^lumu  from  the  cord.  On  reaching  the 
'corner  of  the  street  he  halted,  as  tliough  in 
thouglit,  and  suddeidy  directed  his  course,  with 
swift  strides,  straight  toward  the  Crimean  Ford. 
On  the  way  he  entered  the  yard  of  a  house,  to 
which  a  wing  was  being  built,  and  brought  thence 
two  bricks  under  his  arm.  From  the  Crimean 
Ford  he  turned  along  the  bank,  advanced  to  a 
certain  s])ot,  where  stood  t^o  boats  with  oars,  tied 
to  stakes  (he  had  ah-eady  noted  them  |)r(\  iously) , 
and  sprang  into  one  of  them,  in  company  with 
Mumu.  A  lame  litlk'  old  man  emerged  from 
l)ehind  a  hut  ])laced  in  one  eornei-  of  a  vege- 
table-garden, and  shouted  at  him.  Hut  (ierasim 
only  no(hled  his  head,  ajid  set  to  I'owing  so  \  ig 
orouslv,  althongli  against   the  cinrciit.  that   in  an 


MLMU 

instant  he  had  darted  oft'  to  a  distance  of  a 
Imndred  fatlionis.  The  old  man  stood  and  stood, 
scratched  his  back,  first  with  the  left  hand 
then  with  the  right,  and  retnrned,  limping,  to 
his  hut. 

But  Gerasim  rowed  on  and  on.  And  now  he 
had  left  Moscow  behind  him.  Now,  already  mea- 
dows, fields,  groves  stretched  along  the  shores,  and 
peasant  cottages  made  their  a])pearance.  It 
smacked  of  the  country.  He  flung  aside  the  oars, 
bent  his  head  dow^n  to  jNIumu,  who  was  sitting  in 
front  of  him  on  a  dry  thwart,  —  the  bottom  was 
inundated  with  water,  —  and  remained  motionless, 
with  his  mighty  hands  crossed  on  her  back,  while 
the  boat  drifted  a  little  backward  with  the  current 
toward  the  town.  At  last  Gerasim  straightened' 
up  hastily,  with  a  sort  of  painful  wrath  on  his 
face,  wound  the  rope  around  the  bricks  lie  had 
taken,  arranged  a  noose,  put  it  on  ^lumu's  neck, 
lifted  her  over  the  river,  for  the  last  time  gazed 
at  her.  .  .  .  She  Q-azed  back  at  him  confidinolv 
and  without  alarm,  waving  her  little  tail  slightly. 
He  turned  away,  shut  his  eyes,  and  o))ene(l  his 
hands.  .  .  (xerasim  heard  nothing,  neither  the 
swift  whine  of  the  falling  Munui,  nor  the  loud 
splash  of  the  watei-;  for  him  the  noisiest  day 
was  silent  and  sj)eeehless,  as  not  e\en  the  quiet- 
est niglit  is  to  ns,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes 
again,  the  little  \\M\ts  were  huiTying  down  the 
river   as   before;   as   befoi-e   they    were   plashing 


MTMr 

al)oiil  the  sides  of  the  boat,  and  only  I'ar  astern 
toward  tlie  sliore  c-ci'tain  liroad  circles  were 
s])readinti'. 

Kr(')slika,  as  soon  as  (leiasini  vanished  from  liis 
sight,  retni-iK'd  home  and  reported  what  he  liad 
seen. 

"  AVell.  yes,"  — remarked  Stei)an;— "  lie  will 
drown  her.  Von  may  he  easy  ahont  that.  I  f  he 
has  once  promised  a  thing  .   .   .   ." 

Thronghont  the  day  no  one  saw  Gerasim.  He 
did  not  dine  at  home.  Evening  came;  all,  except 
him,  assemhled  for  sn])])er. 

"  \Vliat  a  (|neer  fellow  that  Gerasim  is!"  — 
sqnealed  a  fat  lanndress.  "  The  idea  of  making 
snch  a  fnss  over  a  dog!  .   .   .   Really!" 

"  Bnt  Gerasim  has  heen  here,"  — suddenly  ex- 
claimed Stepiin,  as  he  scooped  up  his  huckwheat 
groats  with  his  spoon. 

''What?    When?" 

"  Why,  a  couple  of  hours  ago.  Certainly  he 
has!  I  met  him  at  the  gate;  he  has  gone  away 
from  hei-e  again ;  he  went  out  of  the  courtyard.  1 
wanted  to  ask  him  ahout  his  dog,  hut  he  evidently 
Mas  out  of  sorts.  \\^ell.  and  he  jostled  me;  it 
must  have  heen  done  hy  accident,  he  only  wanted 
to  ffct  me  out  of  the  wav;  as  much  as  to  sav : 
'Don't  hother  me! '  —  hut  he  gave  me  such  a  dig 
in  the  spine,  that  61,  6V,  61!  "  —  And  Stepan 
shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  inxoluntary  grim- 
ace, and   ruhhed  the  na])e  of  his  neck.  — "  Ves," 

249 


—  he  added;  — ''  his  hand  is  an  apt  one,  there  's  no 
denying  that!  " 

All  langhed  at  Stepaii  and.  alter  siipjXT,  dis- 
persed to  their  heds. 

And  in  the  nieantinie,  oji  that  same  night,  on 
the  T*  •  *  highway,  a  giant  was  marching  onward 
diligently  and  nnreniittinglv.  with  a  sack  on  his 
shoulders,  and  a  long  staff'  in  his  hands.  It  was 
Gerasini.  Tie  was  hurrying  on,  without  look- 
ing heliind  him.  hui'iving  home,  to  his  own 
house  in  the  eountry,  to  his  native  place.  After 
drowning  poor  ^Nlumu,  he  had  hastened  to  his 
little  den.  had  hriskly  put  together  a  few  articles 
of  clothing  in  an  old  horse-cloth,  had  tied  it  up 
with  a  knot,  slung  it  across  his  shoulder,  and 
taken  himself  off.  He  had  noted  well  the  road 
when  he  had  heen  hrought  to  ^loscow;  the  A'illage 
from  which  his  mistress  had  taken  him  lay  at 
most  five-and-twenty  versts  fi'om  the  highway. 
He  walked  along  it  with  a  certain  invincible  har- 
dihood, with  despairing,  yet  joyful  firmness. 
He  strode  onward,  his  breast  ex])an(led  broadly; 
his  eyes  were  bent  eagerly  straight  ahead.  He 
hastened  omvard  as  though  his  aged  mother  were 
waiting  for  him  in  his  native  place,  as  though  she 
had' summoned  him  to  her  after  long  wanderings 
in  foreign  lands,  among  strange  peo])les.  .  .  The 
summer  night,  which  liad  only  just  descended. 
M'as  warm  and  tranquil;  on  the  one  hand,  in  the 
direction  whei'e  the  sun  had  gone  down,  the  rim 

2.50 


ISIUMIT 

of  the  sky  was  still  white,  witli  a  crimson  ^leam 
from  the  last  reflection  of  the  vanished  day,  —  on 
the  othei'  hand,  the  hlue-^^iey  gloom  was  rising'. 
Xight  had  come  thence.  Hundreds  of  (jnail  were 
M'histling  all  around,  corn-crakes  were  vying  with 
each  other  in  their  calls.  .  .  .  Gerasim  could  not 
hear  them,  he  could  not  hear  even  the  delicate 
nocturnal  rustling  ol'  the  ti'ees  ])ast  which  he 
was  hearing  his  mighty  feet,  but  lie  discerned  the 
familiar  scent  of  the  ripening  rye,  which  was 
exhaled  from  the  dark  fields;  he  felt  the  breeze 
wafting  to  meet  him,  — the  breeze  from  his  native 
place,  —  beating  on  his  face,  playing  with  his  hair 
and  beard;  he  beheld  in  front  of  him  the  road 
homeward,  gleaming  white,  straight  as  an  arrow; 
he  beheld  in  the  sky  innumerable  stars,  which 
illuminated  his  path,  ajid  like  a  lion  he  ste])pe(l  out 
])owerfully  and  alertly,  so  that  when  the  I'ising 
sun  lighted  up  with  its  moistly-crimson  rays  tlie 
gallant  fellow  who  had  just  been  driven  to  ex- 
tremities, three-and-thirty  versts  already  lay  be- 
tween him  and  iNloscow.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  two  days  he  was  at  home  in  his 
own  little  cottage,  to  the  great  amazement  of  the 
soldier's  wife  who  had  removed  thither.  iVfter 
praying  before  the  holy  pictures,  he  immediatel\' 
betook  himself  to  the  overseer.  The  overseer  was 
astonnded  at  first;  but  the  haying  was  only  just 
l)eginning.  Gerasim,  being  a  capital  workman, 
immedi-iUly   had    a    scythe    |)ut    into   his   hand  — 

2.51 


MUMU 

and  he  went  off  to  mow  as  of  yore,  to  mow  in 
such  fashion  tliat  tlie  peasants  simply  sweated 
throu<jh  and  through  as  they  watched  his  swings 
and  strokes.   .   .   . 

But  in  ^Moscow ,  on  the  day  following  Gera- 
sim's  flight,  they  discovered  it.  They  went  into 
his  room,  ransacked  it,  and  told  Gavrila.  The 
latter  came,  made  an  inspection,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  decided  that  the  dumh  man  had 
either  run  away  or  drowned  himself  along  with 
his  stupid  dog.  The  police  were  informed,  and 
the  matter  was  reported  to  the  mistress.  The 
mistress  flew  into  a  rage,  fell  to  weeping,  or- 
dered him  to  be  hunted  up  at  any  cost,  asserted 
that  she  had  never  ordered  the  dog  to  be  made 
away  with,  and,  at  last,  so  berated  Gavrfla, 
that  the  latter  did  nothing  all  day  but  shake 
his  head  and  add:  "AVell!"  until"  Uncle  Tail 
brought  him  to  his  senses  bv  savin;>-  to  hini: 
"We-ell!"  xVt  last  news  came  from  the  Ail- 
lage  of  Gerasim's  arrival  there.  The  mistress 
calmed  down  somewhat ;  at  first  she  was  minded 
to  issue  an  order  demanding  his  immediate  re- 
turn to  Moscow,  but  at'tt'i'w  ard  she  announced 
that  she  wanted  nothing  to  do  with  so  ungrateful 
a  man.  Moreover,  she  died  herself  soon  after, 
and  her  heirs  had  other  things  to  think  about  be- 
sides Gerasim ;  and  they  dismissed  the  rest  of  their 
mother's  serfs  on  (|uit-rent. 

i\Tid  Gerasim  is  living  yet,  poor,  \\rclclie(l  i'cl- 


Ml  MF 

low,  ill  his  lonely  liut;  he  is  healthy  and  poweilul 
as  of  yore,  and,  as  of  yore,  he  does  the  work  of 
four  men,  and,  as  of  yore,  he  is  staid  and  dignified. 
Hut  the  neif>hl)()urs  have  noticed  that  ever  since 
his  return  iVoni  Moscow  he  lias  entii'cly  ceased 
to  have  anything'  to  do  N\ith  woiiieii.  lie  docs  not 
even  look  at  them,  and  he  keeps  not  a  sin<>lc  do^' 
on  his  ])remises.  — "  However,"  —  say  the  pea- 
sants,— "  't  is  lucky  for  him  that  he  needs  no  wo- 
man; and  as  for  a  dog — what  should  he  do  with 
a  dog?  you  could  n't  drag  a  thief  into  his  yard 
with  a  noose!"  Such  is  the  fame  of  the  duml 
man's  heroic  strength. 


253 


THE   IVX 

(1852) 


THE  INN 

Ox  the  great  B***  highway,  ahiiost  equidis- 
tant from  the  two  county  towns  througli 
which  it  passes,  there  was  still  standing,  not  long- 
since,  a  spacious  inn,  very  well  known  to  drivers 
of  tro'ika-teams,  to  freight-sledge  peasants,  to 
merchants'  clerks,  to  traders  of  the  petty-hurgher 
class,  and,  in  general,  to  all  the  numerous  and 
varied  travellers,  who  at  all  seasons  of  the  year 
roll  along  our  roads.  Everyhody  used  to  dro]) 
in  at  this  inn;  except  only  some  landed  ])roi)rie- 
tor's  carriage,  drawn  by  six  home-bred  horses, 
would  glide  solemnly  past,  which,  liowever,  did 
not  prevent  the  coacliman  and  tlie  lackey  on  the 
foot-board  from  looking  with  |)articular  feeling 
and  attention  at  the  ])orch  but  too  familiar  to 
them;  or  some  very  poor  fellow,  in  a  rickety  cart, 
with  fifteen  kopeks  in  the  purse  stuffed  into  his 
bosom,  on  coming  to  the  Hue  inn.  would  urge  on 
his  weak  nag,  hastening  to  his  night's  lodging  in 
the  suburb  on  the  great  liiglnvay,  to  the  house  of 
the  peasant-host,  where  you  will  find  nothing  ex- 
cept hay  and  bread,  but,  on  the  other  liand,  will 
not  be  obliged  to  pay  a  k()])ek  too  much. 

In  addition  to  its  advantageous  situation,  the 

257 


THE  IXN 

iiiii  of  u  hidi  w  c  liave  just  sjjoken  possessed  many 
attractions:  capital  water  in  two  dee])  wells  with 
creaking'  wheels  and  iron  buckets  on  chains;  a 
spacious  stable-yard  uitli  plenty  of  board  slieds 
on  stout  pillars ;  an  abinidant  supply  of  good  oats 
in  the  cellar;  a  warm  liouse,  with  a  huge  Russian 
stove,  into  which,  as  upon  the  shoulders  of  an 
epic  hero,  long  logs  were  thrust ;  two  fairly -clean 
little  chambers  with  reddish-lilac  pa])er  on  tlie 
walls  somewhat  tattered  at  the  bottom,  with  a 
painted  wooden  divan,  chairs  to  match,  and  two 
pots  of  geranium  in  the  windows,  which,  how- 
ever, were  never  w\ashed  and  were  dim  with  the 
dust  of  many  years.  This  inn  offered  other  com- 
forts:  —  the  blacksmith's  shop  was  near  at  hand, 
and  the  mill  was  situated  almost  alongside  of  it; 
in  conclusion,  good  food  was  to  be  had  in  it, 
thanks  to  the  fat  and  rosy-cheeked  peasant-wo- 
man wlio  was  the  cook,  and  who  prepared  the 
viands  in  a  savoury  manner  and  with  ])lenty  of 
fat,  and  was  not  stingy  of  her  stores;  the  nearest 
dram-shop  was  only  half  a  verst  distant ;  the  land- 
lord kept  snufF,  which,  altliougli  mixed  with 
ashes,  was  extremely  heady,  and  tickled  the  nose 
agreeably:  in  a  word,  there  were  many  reasons 
why  guests  of  every  sort  were  not  lacking  in 
that  inn.  Travellers  had  taken  a  fancy  to  it  —  that 
is  the  principal  tiling;  without  that,  as  is  well 
known,  no  })usiness  will  tlu'ive;  and  it  was  liked 
most  of  all  because,  as  people  said  in  tlie  countrj'^- 

258 


THE   TXX 

side,  the  landlord  himself  was  ver}-  lueky  and  suc- 
ceeded in  all  his  enterprises,  although  lie  httle 
deserved  his  luck,  and  it  was  evident  that  if  a 
man  is  destined  to  be  lucky  he  will  be. 

This  landlord  was  a  petty  burgher,  Naiim  Ivii- 
nofF  by  name.  He  was  of  medium  stature,  thick- 
set, stooping  and  broad-shouldered;  he  had  a 
large,  round  head,  hair  whicli  was  wavy  and  al- 
ready grizzled,  altliough  in  appearance  he  was  not 
over  forty  years  of  age;  a  plump  and  rosy  face, 
a  loA^%  but  white  and  smooth  brow,  and  small, 
bright  blue  eyes,  with  which  he  gazed  forth  \'ery 
strangely— askance,  and,  at  the  same  time,  inso- 
lently, which  is  a  combination  rarely  encountered. 
He  always  held  his  head  in  a  drooping  position, 
and  turned  it  with  difficulty,  perhaps  because  his 
neck  was  very  short;  he  talked  briskly  and  did 
not  SAving  his  arms,  but  opened  liis  clenched  fists 
as  he  walked.  \Mien  he  smiled,  — and  be  smiled 
frequently,  but  without  laughter,  as  though  to 
himself,— his  large  lips  moved  ajjart  in  an  un- 
pleasant way,  and  displayed  a  row  of  compact 
and  dazzling  teeth.  He  spoke  abru])tly,  and 
with  a  certain  surly  sound  in  his  voice.  He 
shaved  off  his  beard,  but  did  not  adopt  tlie  for- 
eign dress.  His  garments  consisted  of  a  long, 
extremely-threadbare  kaftan,  ample  bag-trousers, 
and  shoes  worn  on  the  bare  feet.  He  often  ab- 
sented himself  from  home  on  business,  — and  he- 
had  a  great  deal  of  business:  he  was  a  jobbei-  of 

259 


THE   IXX 

horses,  lie  hired  land,  he  raised  vegetables  for  the 
market,  he  purchased  gardens,  and  in  general  oc- 
cu2)ied  himself  with  various  commercial  specula- 
tions,— but  his  absences  never  lasted  long;  like  the 
hawk,  to  whom  in  particular,  especially  as  to  the 
expression  of  his  eyes,  he  bore  a  strong  resem- 
blance, he  kept  returning  to  his  nest.  He  under- 
stood how  to  keep  that  nest  in  order;  he  kept 
track  of  everything,  he  heard  everything,  and 
gave  orders  about  everything;  he  dealt  out,  he 
served  out,  and  calculated  everything  himself, 
and  while  he  did  not  reduce  his  price  a  kopek  to 
any  one,  yet  he  did  not  overcharge. 

The  lodgers  did  not  enter  into  conversation 
with  him,  and  he  himself  was  not  fond  of  wasting 
words  without  cause.  "  I  need  vour  money,  and 
you  need  my  victuals,"  he  was  wont  to  explain, 
as  though  he  were  tearing  off  each  separate  word : 
"  you  and  I  have  n't  got  to  stand  godparents  to 
a  child  and  become  cronies;  the  traveller  has 
eaten,  1  have  fed  him  his  fill,  let  him  not  outstay 
his  welcome.  And  if  he  is  sleepy,  then  let  him 
sleep,  not  chatter."  He  kept  sturdy  and  healthy, 
but  tame  and  submissive  labourers;  they  were 
extremely  afraid  of  him.  He  never  took  a  drop 
of  intoxicating  liquor  into  his  mouth,  but  he  gave 
each  of  them  ten  kopeks  for  vodka  on  festival 
(lavs;  on  other  days  they  did  not  dare  to  drink. 
People  like  Naum  speedily  grow  rich;  ....  but 
Xaum  Ivanoff  had  not  reached  the  brilliant  con- 

260 


THE   IXX 

ditioii  in  which  lie  I'omul  liiinself— aiul  he  was 
reckoned  to  be  wortli  forty  or  fifty  thousand 
rubles  — by  straightforward  ways.  .  .   . 

Twenty  years  previous  to  the  date  at  which  we 
have  set  the  beginning  of  our  story,  an  inn  existed 
on  that  same  site  upon  the  highway.  Truth  to 
tell,  it  had  not  that  dark-red  plank  roof  which 
imparted  to  Naum  Ivanoff's  house  the  aspect  of 
a  nobleman's  manor-liouse ;  and  it  was  poorer  iji 
its  construction,  and  the  sheds  in  the  stable-yard 
were  thatched,  and  the  walls  were  made  of  wat- 
tled boughs  instead  of  boards;  neither  was  it 
distinguished  by  a  triangular  Greek  jjediment 
on  turned  columns;  but  it  was  a  very  decent 
sort  of  inn,  nevertheless,  — spacious,  solid,  and 
warm,— and  travellers  gladly  frequented  it.  Its 
landlord  at  that  time  was  not  Xaum  Ivanoff,  but 
a  certain  Akim  SemyonofF,  the  serf  of  a  neigh- 
bouring landed  proprietress,  Lizaveta  Prokho-', 
rovna  Kuntze— the  widow  of  a  staff -officer. 
This  Akini  was  an  intelligent  ])easant,  with  good 
business  capacity,  who,  having  started  with  two 
wretched  little  nags  as  a  carrier,  in  his  youth,  i-e- 
turned  a  year  later  with  three  good  horses,  and 
from  that  time  forth  spent  the  grejiter  ])art  of  his 
life  in  roaming  along  the  highways,  visited  Kazan 
and  Odessa,  Orenburg  and  Warsaw,  and  went 
abroad  to  "  Lipetzk,"  -  and  travelled  toward  the 
last  with  two  troVkas  of  huge  and  powerful  st;i) 

^  Leipzig. 

'2in 


THE  IXN 

lions  liarnessed  to  two  tiiornious  carts.  Wlietlier 
it  was  that  he  became  bored  by  this  homeless, 
roving  life,  or  whether  he  was  seized  with  the 
desire  to  set  up  a  family  (in  one  of  his  absences 
his  wife  had  died;  the  children  which  he  had  had 
died  also),  at  all  events  he  decided,  at  last,  to 
abandon  his  former  avocation  and  set  up  an  inn. 

AVith  the  permission  of  his  mistress,  he  estab- 
lished himself  on  the  highway,  purchased  in  her 
name  half  a  desyatina  ^  of  land,  and  erected 
thereon  an  inn.  The  venture  proved  a  success. 
He  had  more  than  enough  money  for  the  installa- 
tion; the  experience  which  he  had  acquired  in  his 
prolonged  wanderings  to  all  parts  of  Russia  was 
of  the  greatest  advantage  to  him:  he  knew  how 
to  please  travellers,  especiall}'  men  of  his  own 
former  calling, — three-horse-team  carriers,  —  with 
many  of  whom  he  was  personally  acquainted,  and 
whose  patronage  is  particular!}^  valued  by  the 
tavern-keepers:  so  much  do  these  people  eat  and 
consume  for  themselves  and  their  robust  horses. 
^Vkim's  inn  became  known  for  lumdreds  of  versts 
round  about.  .  .  .  People  were  even  fonder  of 
patronising  him  than  they  were  of  patronising 
Xaum,  who  afterward  succeeded  him,  although 
xVkim  Mas  far  from  being  com])arable  to  Xaiim 
in  his  knowledge  of  the  landlord's  business. 

^Vkim  had  everything  established  on  the  old- 

1  A  (h-xynthia  is  2.10  acres.       He-  was  ohlij^ed  to  buy  the  land  in  liis 
owner's  name:  serfs  could  not  hold  landed  property. — Tuansi.ator. 

262 


THE   INN 

lashioned  footing,  — warm  but  not  (|uite  clean; 
and  it  sometinits  lui])])ent'{l  that  his  oats  turned 
out  to  be  hghi,  or  (hunp,  and  the  food  also  was 
prepared  in  rather  indifferent  fashion;  such  vic- 
tuals were  sometimes  served  on  his  table  as  had 
been  better  left  in  the  oven  for  good,  and  that 
not  because  he  was  stingy  with  material,  but  just 
because  it  haj)pened  so — his  wife  had  not  looked 
after  things.  On  the  otlier  liand,  he  was  ready 
to  deduct  from  the  price,  and  he  would  even  not 
refuse  to  give  credit.  In  a  word,  he  was  a  good 
man  and  an  amiable  landlord.  He  Avas  liberal 
also  with  his  conversation  and  standing  t^'eat; 
over  the  samovar  he  would  sometimes  get  to  )ab- 
bling  so  that  you  would  prick  up  your  ears,  es- 
pecially when  he  began  to  talk  about  Peter,^ 
about  the  Tcherkessian  steppes,  or  about  foreign 
parts;  well,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  was 
fond  of  drinking  with  a  nice  man,  only  not  to 
excess,  and  more  for  the  sake  of  sociability — so 
travellers  said  of  him. 

Merchants  bore  great  good-will  toward  him, 
as,  in  general,  did  all  those  people  who  call  them- 
selves old-fashioned — those  people  who  do  not 
set  out  on  a  journey  without  having  girded 
themselves  and  who  do  not  enter  a  room  with- 
out crossing  themselves,^  and  who  will  not  en- 
ter into  conversation   with  a  man   without  hav- 

^  St.  Petersburg.      Tuansi.atoh. 
2  To  the  holy  pictures.-  'rit  a  nsi.atob. 

263 


THE  IXX 

ing  preliminarily  1)i(l(U'n  liim  "  good  morning." 
Akim's  mere  personal  ap])earance  disposed  one 
in  his  favour;  he  was  tall,  rather  gaunt,  hut 
very  well  built,  even  in  his  mature  years;  he 
liad  a  long,  comely  and  regular  face,  a  high,  open 
brow,  a  thin,  straight  nose,  and  small  lips.  The 
glance  of  his  prominent  brown  eyes  fairly  beamed 
with  gentle  cordiality,  his  thin,  soft  hair  curled  in 
rings  about  his  neck:  very  little  of  it  remained 
on  the  crown  of  his  head.  The  sound  of  Akim's 
voice  was  very  agreeable,  although  weak;  in  his 
youth  he  had  been  a  capital  singer,  but  his  long 
journeys  in  the  open  air,  in  winter,  had  impaired 
liis  lungs.  On  the  other  hand,  he  spoke  very  flu- 
ently and  sweetly.  When  he  laughed,  ray-like 
wrinkles,  A'ery  pleasant  to  behold,  spread  them- 
selves out  aiHDund  his  eyes; — such  wrinkles  are  to 
be  seen  only  in  kind  people.  Akim's  movements 
were  generally  slow  and  not  devoid  of  a  certain 
self-confidence  and  sedate  courtesy,  as  was  befit- 
ting a  man  of  experience  who  had  seen  much  in 
his  day. 

In  fact,  Akim  would  have  been  all  right,  — or, 
as  they  called  him  even  in  the  manor-house, 
whither  he  was  wont  to  go  frequently,  as  well  as 
unfailingly  on  Sundays  after  the  morning  service 
in  church,  Akim  Semyonovitch,' —would  have 
been  all  right  in  every  respect  had  he  not  had  one 
failing,  which  has  ruined  many  men  on  this  earth, 

1  See  note  on  p.  273.— Translatob. 

264 


THE   TNX 

and  ii)  the  end  ruined  him  also  -a  weakness  lor 
the  female  sex.  Akim's  amorousness  went  to  ex- 
tremes: his  lieart  was  utterly  unable  to  resist  a 
feminine  glanee;  he  melted  in  it,  as  the  first  au- 
tumnal snow  melts  in  the  sun  ....  and  he  had 
to  pay  dearly  i'or  his  superfiuous  sensil)ility. 

In  the  eourse  of  the  first  year  after  he  had  set- 
tled down  upon  the  highway,  Akim  was  so  oe- 
cupied  with  the  building  of  his  inn,  with  the  in- 
stallation of  his  establishment,  and  with  all  the 
worries  which  are  inseparable  from  all  new  house- 
holds, that  he  positively  had  not  time  to  think 
of  women,  and  if  any  sinful  thoughts  did  enter 
his  head,  he  promptly  ex[)elle(l  them  by  the  ])eru- 
sal  of  divers  holy  books,  for  which  he  cherished  a 
great  respect  (he  had  taught  himself  to  read  and 
write  during  his  first  trip  as  carrier) ,  by  chanting 
the  Psalms  in  an  undertone,  or  by  some  other  ])i- 
ous  occupation.  ISIoreover,  he  was  already  in  his 
forty-sixth  year, — and  at  that  age  all  passions 
sensibly  calm  down  and  grow  cool:  and  the  time 
for  marrying  was  past.  Akim  himself  had  begun 
to  think  that  that  folly,  as  he  expressed  it,  had 
broken  loose  from  him  .  .  .  but  evidently  no  man 
can  escape  his  fate. 

Akim's  former  owner,  Lizaveta  Prokhoiox  na 
Kuntze,  who  had  been  left  a  widow  by  hei-  hus- 
band, a  staff -officer  of  German  extraction,  was 
herself  a  native  of  the  town  of  Mittau,  wheie  she 
had  passed  the  early  days  of  lier  childhood,  and 

265 


THE   IXN 

where  she  still  had  a  very  nunierons  and  needy 
family,  concerning  whom,  however,  she  troubled 
herself  very  little,  especially  since  one  of  her  bro- 
thers, an  officer  in  an  army  infantry  regiment, 
had  unexjDectedly  presented  himself  at  her  house 
and  on  the  following  day  had  raised  such  an  up- 
roar that  he  had  all  but  tliraslied  the  mistress  of 
the  house  herself,  and  had  addressed  her,  into  the 
bargain,  as  "  du  LumpcumamseU! "  while  on  the 
preceding  evening  he  had  himself  called  her  in 
broken  Russian:  "  sister  and  benefactress."  Liza- 
veta  Prokhorovna  hardly  ever  left  the  nice  little 
estate  acquired  by  the  efforts  of  her  spouse,  who 
had  been  an  architect ;  ^  she  herself  managed  it, 
and  managed  it  far  from  badly.  Lizaveta  Pro- 
khorovna did  not  let  slip  the  smallest  source  of 
profit;  she  derived  advantage  to  herself  from 
everything;  and  in  this  point,  as  well  as  in  that 
of  remarkable  cleverness  in  making  one  kopek 
serve  instead  of  two,  her  German  nationality  be- 
trayed itself;  in  everything  else  she  had  become 
extremely  Russified.  She  had  a  considerable 
number  of  domestic  serfs;  in  particular,  she  ke])t 
a  great  many  maids,  who,  however,  did  not  eat  the 
bread  of  idleness:  from  morning  until  night  their 
backs  were  bowed  over  work."     She  was  fond  of 

1  He  had  been  a  staff-officer  in  the  civil  service,  accordinff  to  Peter 
the  Great's  Table  of  Ranks.      Tkaksi.atoii. 

^  These  numerous  maids,  in  the  old  serf  days,  were  emploj'ed  in 
making  the  most  exquisite  linen,  lace,  embroidery,  and  so  forth. — 
Translator. 

266 


^ 


TTTE   TXX 

driving  out  in  her  c'arria<>e  with  hvcricd  hickeys 
on  the  foot-board;  siu-  was  fond  of  havin<r  peo- 
ple retail  gossip  to  licr  and  play  tlie  syc'()|)liant; 
and  she  herself  was  a  first-rate  gossij);  she  was 
fond  of  loading  a  man  down  with  her  favours, 
and  suddenly  stunning  him  with  disgrace  — in 
a  word,  IJzaveta  I'rokliorovna  conducted  herself 
exactly  like  a  nohly-lxjin  dame.  —  She  favoured 
Akim,  —  he  paid  her  a  good  round  (|ult-i-ejit  with 
punctuality,  — she  chatted  graciously  with  him, 
and  even,  in  jest,  invited  him  to  be  her  guest  .  .  . 
but  it  was  precisely  in  the  manor-house  that  ca- 
lamity awaited  Akim. 

Among  the  number  of  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna's 
maids,  there  was  one  young  girl  of  twenty,  an 
orphan,  Dunyasha  by  name.  She  was  not  ill- 
favoui'ed,  was  well  formed  and  clever;  her  fea- 
tures, although  not  regular,  were  calculated  to 
please;  her  fresh  com]dexion,  her  thick,  fair  hair, 
her  red  lips,  and  a  certain  dashing,  half-sneer- 
ing, half -challenging  expression  of  face,  were 
all  quite  charming  in  their  way.  ^loreover,  in 
spite  of  her  orphaned  state,  she  bore  herself 
staidly,  almost  haughtily;  she  was  descended  from 
an  ancient  line  of  house-serfs;  her  late  father, 
Arefy,  had  been  major-domo  i'oi-  thirty  years, 
and  her  grandfather,  Stepan,  had  served  as  valet 
to  a  gentleman  long  since  deceased,  a  sergeant 
of  the  Guards  and  a  prince.  She  dressed  neatly, 
and  was  j^roud  of  her  hands,  which  really  were  ex- 

267 


THE  IXX 

tremelv  handsome.  Duiivaslia  sliowed  cfreat  dis- 
(lain  for  all  her  admirers,  listened  to  their  sweet 
savino's  with  a  eonceited  smile,  and  if  she  an- 
swered  them,  it  was  ehiefly  hy  exclamation  only, 
in  the  nature  of:  "  Yes!  certainly!  catch  me  doing 
that!  the  idea!  "...  These  exclamations  scarcely 
ever  left  her  tongue.  Dunyasha  had  spent  ahout 
three  years  in  Moscow,  under  instruction,  where 
she  had  acquired  those  peculiar  grimaces  and 
manners  which  characterise  chambermaids  who 
have  sojourned  in  the  capitals.  People  spoke  of 
her  as  a  conceited  girl  (a  great  encomium  in  the 
mouths  of  domestics)  who,  although  she  had  seen 
much  of  life,  had  not  lowered  her  dignity.  She 
sewed  far  from  badly,  moreover;  but,  neverthe- 
less, Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  had  no  particular 
liking  for  her,  thanks  to  the  head  maid,  Kiril- 
lovna,  a  woman  no  longer  young,  sly,  and  fond  of 
intrigue.  Kirillovna  profited  by  her  great  in- 
fluence over  her  mistress,  and  contrived  very  art- 
fully to  keep  rivals  out  of  the  way. 

And  it  was  with  this  Dunyasha  that  Akim  fell 
in  love!  And  in  a  way  such  as  he  had  never 
loved  before.  He  iK'lield  her  for  the  first  time 
in  church;  she  had  only  just  returned  from  ISIos- 
cow;  ....  then  he  met  her  several  times  in  the 
manor-house;  at  last  he  spent  a  whole  evening 
with  her  at  the  overseer's,  whither  he  had  been 
invited  to  tea,  along  with  other  honourable  per- 
sonages.     The   house-serfs   did    not    look    down 

208 


TIIK    IX \ 

on  liim,  altlK)ii<>l)  lit-  did  not  he-long  to  llicii-  social 
class,  and  wore  a  beard;  '  l)nt  he  was  a  cultured 
man,  could  read  and  write,  and  — chief  thing  of 
all— he  had   money;  mo!"eovei\  he  did   not  dress 
in  peasant   fashion,  hut  ^v()re  a   long  kaftan   of 
black  cloth,  boots  of  dressed  calf-leather,  and  a 
small  kerchief  round  his  neck.     To  tell  the  truth, 
some  of  the  house-serfs  did  make  remarks  among 
themselves  to  the  effect,  "  't  is  plain,  neverthe- 
less, that  he  is  not  one  of  us,"  but  to  his  face  they 
almost  flattered  him.     That  evening  at  the  over- 
seer's,   Dunyasha    completed    the    concjuest    of 
Akim's  amorous  heart,  although  she  positively  did 
not  reply  by  a  single  word  to  all  his  ingratiating- 
speeches,   and   only    now   and   then    cast    a   side- 
long glance  at  him,  as  though  astonished  at  see- 
ing that  peasant  there.     All  this  only  inflamed 
Akim  the  more.    He  went  off  home,  thought,  and 
thought,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  obtain   her 
hand.   .   .   .   So  tho)-oughly  had  she  "  bewitched  " 
him.      15ut    how    shall   we    describe    Dunyasha's 
wrath  and  indignation  when,  five  days  later,  Ki- 
rillovna,  affectionately  calling  her  into  her  room, 
announced  to  her  that  iVkfm    (and  evidently  he 
had  understood  how  to  set  about  the  business) , 
—  that  that  beard-wearer  and   peasant   .Vkim,  to 
sit  beside  whom  she  had  regarded  as  an  insult,— 
was  courting  lier! 

At  first  Dunyasha  flushed  hot  all  o\  er,  then  she 

'The  beard  was  regarded  as  a  mark  of  peasant  orijrin.— Tuassi  vtdii. 

269 


THE  IXX 

emitted  a  forced  laugh,  tlien  fell  to  weeping; 
but  KiriUovna  conducted  the  attack  so  artfully, 
so  clearly  made  her  feel  her  position  in  the  house, 
so  cleverly  hinted  at  Akim's  decent  appearance, 
wealth,  and  blind  devotion,  and,  in  conclusion,  so 
significantly  alluded  to  the  mistress's  own  wishes, 
that  Dunyasha  left  the  room  with  hesitation 
depicted  on  her  face,  and  encountering  Aki'm, 
merely  gazed  intently  into  his  eyes,  but  did  not 
turn  away.  The  fabulously  hnish  gifts  of  this 
enamoured  man  dispelled  her  last  doubts.  .  .  . 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  to  whom  Akim,  in  his  joy, 
had  presented  a  hundred  peaches  on  a  large  sil- 
ver salver,  gave  her  consent  to  his  marriage  with 
Dunyasha,  and  the  wedding  took  ])lace.  Akim 
spared  no  expense— and  the  bride,  who  on  the 
eve  of  the  wedding  had  sat  in  the  maids'  room  like 
one  on  the  verge  of  expiring,  and  had  done  no- 
thing but  cry  on  the  very  morning  of  the  wed- 
ding,  while  KiriUovna  was  dressing  her  for  the 
ceremony,  was  speedily  comforted.  .  .  .  Her 
mistress  gave  her  her  own  shawl  to  wear  in  church 
—  and  that  very  same  dav  Akim  gave  her  another 
of  the  same  sort,  only  almost  better. 

So  then  Akim  married,  and  transported  his 
young  wife  to  his  inn.  .  .  .  They  began  to  live. 
Dunyasha  proved  to  be  a  bad  housekeeper,  a 
poor  helpmeet  for  her  husband.  She  never  looked 
after  anything,  she  grieved,  was  bored,  unless 
some  passing  officer  was  attentive  to  her  and  paid 

270 


TIIK    IXN 

court  to  licr,  as  lie  sat  behind  tlic  caj)ac'ious 
samovar;  she  freciuently  absented  hersell*,  sonie- 
tinies  going  to  the  town  to  sho]j,  sometimes  to  the 
mistress's  manor-house,  whieh  lay  four  versls  dis- 
tant from  tile  inn.  In  the  manor-house  she  re- 
freshed herself;  there  people  of  her  own  soi-t  sur- 
rounded her;  the  maids  envied  her  smart  attire; 
Kirillbvna  treated  her  to  tea;  Lizaveta  l^rokho- 
rovna  lierself  chatted  with  her.  .  .  .  lint  even 
these  visits  did  not  pass  off  without  bittei-  emo- 
tions for  Dunyasha.  .  .  .  For  instance,  being  a 
house-serf,  she  was  not  allowed  to  wear  a  bonnet, 
and  was  obhged  to  muffle  her  head  u])  in  a  ker- 
chief .  .  .  .  "  hke  a  merchant's  wife,"  as  the 
crafty  Kirillovna  said  to  her.  ..."  Like  the 
wife  of  a  petty  burgher,"  thought  Uunyiisha  to 
herself. 

INIoi-e  than  once  there  recurred  to  xVkim's  mind 
the  words  of  his  only  relative,  an  aged  uncle,  an 
inveterate  ])easant,  a  man  without  familv  or  land: 
"  Well,  brother,  Akfmushka,"  he  had  said  to  him, 
when  he  met  him  in  the  street,  "  I  have  heard  that 
thou  'rt  a-courting.   .   .   ." 

"  ^Vell,  yes,  I  am;  what  of  it?  " 

"  Kkh,  Akim,  Akim!  Thou  'I't  no  mate  i'or  us 
peasants  now,  there  's  no  denying  it ;  neither  is  she 
a  mate  for  thee." 

"  But  why  is  n't  she  a  mate  lor  me:*  " 

"  \\'hy,  for  this  reason,  at  least,"  — re  tuiiied  IJu' 
other,  pointing  to   Akim's   beard,   which   he,   to 

271 


THE  IX X 

please  his  bride,  had  begun  to  cHp  close — he 
would  not  consent  to  shave  it  off  entirely.  .  .  . 
Akini  dropped  his  eyes;  and  the  old  man  turned 
away,  wrapped  about  him  the  skirts  of  his  slieep- 
skin  coat,  which  was  ragged  on  the  shoulders,  and 
went  his  way,  shaking  his  head. 

Yes,  more  than  once  did  Akim  grow  pensive, 
grunt  and  sigli.  .  .  .  But  his  love  for  his  pretty 
wife  did  not  diminisii;  he  was  proud  of  her, 
especially  when  lie  compared  her,  not  only  with 
the  other  peasant  women,  or  with  his  former 
wife,  whom  he  liad  married  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
but  with  the  other  maids  of  the  house-serf  class: 
as  much  as  to  say:  "  Just  see  what  sort  of  a  bird 
we  've  captured!"  ....  Her  slightest  caress 
afforded  him  great  pleasure.  .  .  "  Perhaps,"  he 
thought  to  himself,  "  she  '11  get  used  to  me,  she  '11 
grow  accustomed  to  hei-  new  life.  .  ."  ^Moreover, 
she  conducted  lierself  very  well,  and  no  one  could 
say  an  evil  word  concerning  her. 

Several  years  j^^issed  in  this  manner.  Dunya- 
sha  really  did  end  by  becoming  used  to  her  exis- 
tence. The  older  Akim  grew,  the  more  attached 
he  became  to  hei-,  and  the  more  he  trusted  lier;  her 
friends,  who  had  married  men  not  of  the  j^easant 
class,  suffered  dire  need,  or  were  in  distress,  or 
had  fallen  into  evil  hands.  .  .  .  15ut  Akim  con- 
tinued to  wax  richer  and  richer.  He  succeeded  in 
everything — he  was  lucky;  only  one  tliiii"'  "rieved 
him:  (Jod  luid  not  given  him  any  cliildi-eii.     Dun- 

272 


TITK   TXX 

vaslui  was  already  in  hvv  I wc'iitv-fiftli  year;  every 
one  had  coiik'  to  call  licr  Avdotya  Arefyeviia.' 
Nevertheless,  she  had  not  heeoiiie  a  good  house- 
wife.—  But  she  had  conic  to  love  her  home,  she 
attended  to  the  stores  of  ])rovisions,  she  looked 
after  the  servant-niaids.  .  .  .  Tiiith  to  tell,  she 
did  all  this  in  an  indifFerent  way,  and  did  not  ex- 
ercise the  proper  oversi<>Jit  as  to  cleanliness  and 
order;  hut.  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  principal 
room  of  the  iiui,  alongside  the  portrait  of  Akim, 
hung*  her  portrait,  painted  in  oils  and  ordered 
by  her  from  a  home-bred  ai"tist,  the  son  oi'  the 
])arish  deacon.  — She  was  rej)resented  in  a  white 
gown  and  a  yellow  shawl,  with  six  rows  ol'  large 
pearls  on  her  neck,  long  earrings  in  her  ears,  and 
rings  on  every  finger.  .  .  It  was  possible  to  recog- 
nise her,  —  although  the  painter  had  depicted  her 
as  extremely  corpulent  and  rosy-cheeked,  and 
had  painted  her  eyes  black  instead  of  grey,  and 
even  a  trifle  squinting.  .  .  He  had  not  succeeded 
at  all  with  Akini:  the  latter  had,  somehow,  turned 
out  very  dark  —  a  la  N c in hrandt.  — so  that  a  trav- 
eller wouhl  sometimes  step  up  and  stare  at  it,  and 
merely  bellow  a  bit. 

Avdotya  bad  begiui  to  dress  with  a  good  deal 
of  carelessness;  she  would  throw  a  large  kerchief 
over  her  shoulders,  and  the  gown  under  it  would 


'  Neither  field-serfs  nor  the  superior  house-serfs  were  addressed  bj' 
their  patronymic  (like  the  nobility).      Dunyasha  is  the  diminutive 

of  Avdoty.  — 'I'HANSI.ATOR. 

273 


THE   IX X 

fit  anyhow ;  iiuloleiicc  had  taken  possession  of  her, 
that  si(>hing.  languid,  sleepy  indolence  to  which 
Russians  are  but  too  greatly  inclined,  especially 
when  their  existence  is  assured 

Nevertheless,  the  affairs  of  Akim  and  his  wife 
throve  verv  well;  thev  lived  in  concord,  and  bore 
the  reputation  of  being  an  exeni])lary  married 
pair.  But,  like  the  squirrel  which  is  cleaning  its 
nose  at  the  very  moment  when  the  arrow  is 
aimed  at  it,  a  man  has  no  foreboding  of  his  own 
disaster— and  suddenly  down  he  crashes,  as 
though  on  the  ice.  .  .  . 

One  autumn  evening  a  merchant  with  dry- 
goods  stopped  at  Akim's  inn.  He  was  making 
his  wav,  bv  devious  roads,  with  two  loaded 
kibitkas,  from  JNIoscow  to  Kharkoff;  he  was 
one  of  those  peddlers  whom  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  landed  proprietors  sometimes  await 
with  so  much  impatience.  With  this  peddler,  al- 
ready an  elderly  man,  were  travelling  two  com- 
rades, or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  two  work- 
men— one  pale,  thin,  hump-backed,  the  other  a 
stately,  handsome  young  fellow  of  twenty.  They 
ordered  supjjer,  then  sat  down  to  drink  tea;  the 
|)eddler  invited  the  landlord  and  landlady  to 
drink  a  cup  with  him  — and  they  did  not  re- 
fuse. A  conversation  was  speedily  under  way 
between  the  two  old  men  (Akim  had  seen  his 
iifty-sixth  birthday)  ;  the  peddler  was  making  in- 
quiries concerning  the  neighbouring  landed  x^ro- 

2rJ. 


TlIK    IX N 

priclurs,  —  and  no  one  could  impart  to  liiiii  all 
necessary  details  about  them  better  than  could 
Akim.  The  hump-backed  labourer  kept  continu- 
ally going  out  to  look  at  the  carts,  and  at  last  took 
himself  oft'  to  sleep;  Avdotya  was  left  to  chat  with 
the  other  labourer.  .  .  .  She  sat  beside  him  and 
talked  little,  and  chieHy  listened  to  what  he  nar- 
rated to  her;  l)ut  evidently  his  remarks  ])leased 
her;  her  face  grew  animated,  a  flush  ])layed  over 
her  cheeks,  and  she  laughed  cpiite  often  and 
readily.  The  young  labourer  sat  almost  motion- 
less, with  his  curly  head  bent  toward  the  table;  he 
spoke  softly  without  raising  his  voice,  and  without 
haste;  on  the  other  hand  his  eyes,  not  large,  but 
audaciously  bright  and  blue,  fairly  bored  into 
Avdotya;  at  fii-st  she  turned  away  from  them, 
then  she  began  to  gaze  into  his  face.  The  young- 
fellow's  face  was  as  fresh  and  smooth  as  a  Cri- 
mean apple;  he  smiled  frequently  and  drummed 
his  white  fingers  on  his  white  chin,  already  cov- 
ered with  sparse,  dark  down.  He  ex])ressed  him- 
self after  the  merchant  fashion,  but  with  great 
ease,  and  with  a  certain  careless  self-confidence — 
and  kept  staring  at  her  all  the  M'hile  with  the 
same  insistent  and  insolent  look.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
he  moved  a  little  closer  to  her,  and  without  chang- 
ing the  expression  of  his  face  in  the  least,  he  said 
to  her:  "  Avdotya  /Vrefyevna,  there  's  nobody  in 
the  world  nicer  than  yoii;  1  'm  ready  to  die  i'or 
you,  1  do  believe." 

275 


THE  IXX 

Avdotva  lauylicd  loiidlw 

"  AVliat  's  the  matter  with  thee?  "  — Akim  asked 
her. 

"  \\'hy,  tliis  man  liere  is  telhiig  such  absurd 
things," — she  said.  l)ut  witliout  any  special  con- 
fusion. 

The  old  peddler  grinned. 

"  He,  he,  yes,  maam ;  tliat  Xaiim  of  mine  is 
such  a  joker,  sir.  But  you  must  n't  listen  to 
him,  ma'am." 

"  Yes,  certainly!  as  if  I  would  listen  to  him," 
— she  replied,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  He,  he,  of  course,  ma'am,"  —  remarked  the 
old  man.  —  "  Well,  but," — he  added  in  a  drawl, — 
"  good-bye,  I  'm  much  obliged,  ma'am,  but  now 
't  is  time  to  go  to  roost,  ma'am.  .  .  ."  And  he 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"  And  we  are  much  obliged,  sir,  too,  sir,"  —  said 
Akim  also,  — "  for  the  entertainment,  that  is  to 
say;  but  now  we  wisli  you  good  night,  sir.  Rise, 
Avdotj^ishka." 

Avdotya  rose,  as  thougli  reluctantly,  and  after 
lier  Xaiim  rose  also  ....  and  all  dis])ersed. 

The  landlord  and  landhidy  l)etook  themselves 
to  the  small,  closet-like  room  wliich  served  tliem 
as  a  bedroom.  Akim  set  to  snoring  instantly. 
Avdotya  could  not  get  to  slee])  for  a  long  time. 
.  .  .  At  first  she  lay  still,  with  her  face  turned 
to  the  wall,  then  she  began  to  toss  about  on  the 
hot  feather-bed,  now  throwing  off,  now  drawing 

276 


TTTK    TXX 

up  till'  f()\crlc't  ....  Hull  slu'  IVll  iiilo  a  liolit 
doze.  iVll  of  a  sucUltn,  a  man  s  loud  voice  re- 
sounded in  the  yard;  it  was  singiu*^'  some  slow  hut 
not  mournful  soni^-.  the  words  of  which  could  not 
be  distinguished.  Avd(')tya  opened  her  eyes, 
raised  hersell'  on  her  elbow,  and  began  to  listen. 
.  .  .  The  song  still  went  on.  ...  It  poui'cd 
i'orth  sonorously  on  the  aiitniiinal  aii-. 

.Vkim  raised  his  head. 

"  Who  s  that  singing?  " — he  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know,"  —  she  replied. 

"  He  sings  well,"  —  he  added,  after  a  hrlei' 
pause.  —  "  Well.  What  a  strong  voice.  I  used  to 
sing  in  my  day,"  —  he  continued,  —  "  and  I  sang 
well,  but  my  voice  is  ruined.  But  that  s  a  fine 
singer.  It  must  be  that  young  fellow  singing. 
Naiim  is  his  name,  I  think."  —  And  he  turned 
over  on  his  other  side — drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
fell  asleep  again. 

The  voice  did  not  cease  for  a  long  time  there- 
after. .  .  .  Avdotya  continued  to  listen  and  lis- 
ten; at  last  it  suddenly  broke  off'  short,  as  it  were, 
then  uttered  one  more  wild  shout,  and  slowly  died 
away.  Avdotya  crossed  herself,  and  laid  her  head 
on  the  })illow.  .  .  .  Half  an  hour  ela])sed.  .  .  . 
She  raised  herself  and  began  softly  to  get  out  of 
bed.  ... 

"Whither  art  thou  going,  wife?"— Akim 
asked  her  through  his  sleep. 

She  stopped  short. 

277 


THE   INN 


■  To  adjust  the  shrine-lamp,"  ^ — she  answered; 
*'  somehow  or  other  1  can't  sleep.'' 

"  Thou  hadst  ])etter  say  thy  prayers,"  — stam- 
mered Akini  as  he  fell  asleep. 

Avdotya  went  to  the  slirine-lamp,  began  to  ad- 
just it,  and  incautiously  extinguished  it;  she  re- 
turned and  lay  down  in  bed.    Silence  reigned. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  the  merchant 
set  out  on  liis  way  with  his  companions.  Avdotya 
was  sleeping.  Akim  escorted  them  for  about 
half  a  verst;  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  mill. 
On  returning  home  he  found  his  wife  already 
dressed,  and  no  longer  alone;  with  her  was  the 
young  fellow  of  the  previous  evening,  Xaum. 
Thev  were  standing  bv  the  table,  near  the  win- 
(low,  and  talking  together.  On  catching  sight 
of  Akim,  Avdotva  silentlv  left  the  room,  but 
Naiim  said  that  he  had  returned  for  his  master's 
mittens,  which  the  latter  had  forgotten  on  the 
bench,  and  he  also  left  the  room. 

We  shall  now  inform  our  readers  of  that  which 
thev,  no  doubt,  have  alreadv  divined  without  our 
aid:  Avdotya  had  fallen  passionately  in  love  with 
Xaum.  How  this  could  come  to  pass  so  quickly, 
it  is  difficult  to  explain ;  it  is  all  the  more  difficult, 
in  that,  up  to  that  time,  she  had  behaved  in  an 
irreproachable  manner,  notwithstanding  numer- 
ous opportunities  and  temptations  to  betray  her 

1  It  is  customary  to  have  a  holy  picture,  with  a  shrine-lamp  filled 
with  olive-oil  burning  before  it,  in  l)e(lrooras.  — Tkansi.atoh 

278 


THE   IXX 

marital  vows.  Later  on.  wluii  licr  relations  with 
Xauni  became  pnblie.  many  [)ersons  in  tlie  coun- 
tryside declared  thai  on  that  \  erv  first  eveninu" 
he  had  put  some  mau:ic  iierh  into  her  tea  (peo- 
ple witli  us  still  believe  firmly  in  the  efficacy  of 
this  method^ ,  and  that  this  was  very  readily  to  be 
discerned  in  Avdotva.  who.  thev  said,  very  soon 

•  •  * 

thereafter  began  to  grow  thin  and  bored. 

However  that  may  be.  at  all  events  Xaiim  be- 
gan to  be  frequently  seen  at  Akim's  inn.  First, 
he  journeyed  past  with  that  same  merchant.  Init 
three  months  later  he  made  his  appearance  alone, 
witli  his  own  wares:  then  a  rumour  became  cur- 
rent that  he  had  taken  u])  his  residence  in  one 
of  the  near-by  towns  of  the  county,  and  from  that 
time  forth  not  a  ^^•eek  passed  that  his  stout, 
painted  cart,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  plump  horses 
which  he  drove  himself,  did  not  make  its  appear- 
ance on  the  highway. 

There  was  no  great  friendship  between  him  and 
Akim.  but  no  hostility  between  them  was  ajjpar- 
ent:  Akim  paid  no  great  attention  to  him,  and 
knew  nothing  about  him.  except  that  he  was  an 
intelligent  young  fellow,  who  had  started  out 
boldly.  He  did  not  suspect  Avdotya's  real  feel- 
ings, and  continued  to  trust  her  as  before. 

Thus  ])assed  two  years  more. 

Then,  one  sunmier  day.  before  dinner,  about 
one  o'clock,  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  who  precisely 
during  the  course  of  those  two  years  had  some 

279 


THE   IXN 

how  siKklciily  grown  wrinkled  and  sallow,  de- 
spite all  sorts  of  massage,  rouge,  and  powder, — 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna.  with  her  lap-dog  and  her 
folding  })arasol,  strolled  forth  lor  a  \\alk  in  her 
neat  little  German  park.  Lightly  rustling  her 
starched  gown,  she  was  walking  with  minc- 
ing steps  along  the  sanded  path,  between  Uvo 
rows  of  dahlias  drawn  up  in  military  array, 
when  suddenly  she  was  overtaken  by  our  old 
acquaintance,  Kirillovna,  who  respectfully  an- 
nounced that  a  certain  merchant  from  B***  de- 
sired to  see  her  on  a  very  important  matter. 
Kirillovna,  as  of  yore,  enjoyed  the  mistress's 
favour  (in  realit}^  she  managed  the  estate  of 
jNIadame  Kuntze),  and  some  time  previously  had 
received  permission  to  wear  a  white  mob-cap, 
which  imi)arted  still  more  harshness  to  the  thin 
features  of  her  swarthy  face. 

"  A  merchant?  "  —  inquired  the  lady.  "  What 
does  he  want?  " 

"  1  don't  know,  ma'am,  what  he  wants," — re- 
plied Kirillovna  in  a  wheedling  voice;  —  "but, 
apparently,  he  wishes  to  purchase  something 
from  you,  ma'am."  , 

Lizaveta  I'rokhorovna  returned  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, seated  herself  in  her  customary  i)lace, 
an  arm-chair  with  a  canopy,  over  which  ivy  me- 
andered prettily,  and  ordered  the  merchant  from 
B***  to  be  summoned. 

Xaum  entered,  made  his  bow,  and  halted  at 
the  door. 

280 


TITK   TXX 

I  h;\\v  lu'ard  llial  you  \\  isli  to  hiix  soinclliiii^ 
from  UK'."  — bc'crnn  LizavcHa  Pi-(')kli()i()\  iia,  and 
tli()u«»lil  ((•  iR-rscir  the  while:  — "  \\'hal  a  haiid- 
sonie  man  tliis  iiuTchaTit  is!  " 

"  Exactly  so,  nuraiii." 

"  And  precisely  what  is  it?  " 

"  Will  you  not  deif>n  to  sell  vour  inn!'  " 

"What  inn?" 

"  ^Vhy,  the  one  which  stands  on  the  hi<>h\\ay, 
not  far  from  here.  ' 

■  JUit  that  inn  does  not  belon<i-  to  me.     That  is 
Akim's  inn." 

"  Why  is  n't  it  yours?  Tt  stands  on  your  laiid, 
ma'am." 

"  Assuming  that  the  land  is  mine  ....  ])ought 
in  my  name;  still  the  inn  is  his." 

"  Just  so,  ma'am.  So  then,  won't  yon  sell  it 
to  us,  ma'am?  " 

"  I  am  to  sell  it?  " 

"  Just  so,  ma'am.  And  we  would  i)ay  a  good 
price  for  it." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  maintained  silence  for 
a  while. 

"Really,  this  is  strange,"  —  she  began  again: 
"  what  are  vou  saving;'  Hut  how  nineh  would  vou 
give?"  —  she  added.  '" 'i'hat  is  to  say.  I  am  not 
askiuii'  for  mvself.  but  foi'  Akfm." 

"  Why,  with  all  the  buildings  and.  ma'am,  <le- 
pendencies,  ma'am  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  and.  of  eour.se, 
with  the  land  attached  to  the  inn.  we  would  give 
two  thousand  rubles,  ma'am." 

281 


THE   I XX 

"  Two  thousand  rubles!  That  's  very  httle," 
—  rephed  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna. 

"  Tliat  's  the  proper  price,  ma'am." 

"  But,  have  you  talked  it  over  with  Akim?  " 

"  Why  should  we  talk  witli  him.  ma'am?  The 
inn  is  yours,  so  we  have  tliought  ])est  to  discuss 
it  with  you,  ma'am." 

"  But  I  liave  alreadv  told  vou  ....  reallv, 
this  is  astonishing!  How  is  it  tliat  you  do  not 
understand  me?  " 

"  Why  don't  we  understand,  ma'am?  We 
do." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  looked  at  X^aum,  X'^aiim 
looked  at  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna. 

"  How  is  it  to  be,  then,  ma'am?  "  —  he  began: 
— "  what  i)roposal  have  you  to  make  on  your  side, 
that  is  to  say,  ma'am?  " 

"  On  my  side  .  .  .  ."  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna 
fidgeted  about  in  her  easy-chair.  — "  In  the  first 
place,  I  tell  you  that  two  thousand  is  not  enough, 
and  in  the  second  ])lace  .  .  .  ." 

"  We  '11  add  a  hundred,  if  you  like." 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  rose. 

"  I  see  that  you  are  talking  at  cross-pur])oses. 
and  I  have  already  told  you  tliat  I  camiot  and 
will  not  sell  tliat  inn.'  I  cannot  ....  that  is  to 
say,  I  will  not." 

X'aum  smiled  and  made  no  reply  for  a  while. 

"  Well,  as  you  like,  ma'am  .  .  .  ."  he  remarked, 
with  a  slif^ht  shruq'  of  the  shoulders:  — "  I   will 

282 


rilK   INN 

bid  you  good-day,  ni;rani."  — iViid  ]\v  iiiadc  liis 
bow,  and  grasjK'd  Ww    Inoi-liaiidlL'. 

liizaveta  Pioklioiox  iia  Imncd  toward  biiii. 

"  However,  ...."'  she  said,  with  barely  per- 
eeptible  liesitation,  — "  you  need  not  ^yn  just  yet.  ' 
—  She  rang  the  })ell;  Kin'llovna  made  her  aj)pear- 
anee  from  the  boudoir. 

"  Kin'llovna,  order  the  servant.s  to  give  the  iner- 
eliant  tea.  — 1  will  see  you  later  on,"  — she  added, 
with  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head. 

Naiim  bowed  again,  and  left  the  room  in  com- 
pany with  Kirillovna. 

Lizaveta  Prokliorovna  })aeed  uj)  and  down  the 
room  a  couple  of  times,  then  rang  the  bell  again. 
This  time  a  page  entered.  She  ordered  him  to 
summon  Kirillovna.  In  a  few  moments  Kiril- 
lovna entered,  ^\  ith  l)arely  a  squeak  of  her  new 
goat's-leather  shoes. 

"Didst  thou  hear,"  — ])egan  Lizaveta  I'rokho- 
rovna,  with  a  constrained  smile,  —"  wjiat  that 
merchant  is  pr()])()sing  to  me?  Such  a  (pieer  man, 
really !  " 

"  No,  ma'am,  1  did  n"t  hear.  .  .  .  AN'^hat  is  it, 
ma'am?"  —  And  Kirillovna  slightly  nanowed  her 
little,  black,  Kalmyk  eyes. 

"  He  wants  to  buy  Aki'm's  inn  from  me." 

"  And  what  of  that,  ma'am '  "' 

"  Why,  seest  thou  ....  \hi\  how  about 
Akim?     I  ]]-<\\v  gi\(ii  il  io  Aki'm." 

"  And,  good  gracious,  my  lady,  w  hat  is  il  you 

•JS.'J 


THE  INN 

are  pleased  to  sayi'  Is  ii't  tliat  inn  yours?  Are  n't 
we  your  property,  pray?  And  everytliing  we 
have, — is  n't  that  also  the  property  of  the  mis- 
tress? " 

"  INIercy  nie,  what 's  that  thou  'rt  saying,  Ki- 
rillovna?"  —  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  got  out  her 
batiste  handkerchief  and  nervously  blew  her  nose. 
—  "  Akim  bought  that  inn  out  of  his  own  money." 

"  Out  of  his  own  money?  And  where  did  he 
get  that  money? — Was  n't  it  through  your  kind- 
ness? And,  then,  see  how  long  he  has  enjoyed 
the  use  of  the  land.  .  .  .  Surely,  all  this  is  through 
your  kindness.  And  do  you  think,  madam,  that 
even  so  he  will  not  have  more  money  left  ?  AVhy, 
he  's  richer  than  you  are,  as  God  is  my  witness, 
ma  am ! 

"  All  that  is  so,  of  course,  but,  nevertheless,  I 
cannot.  .  .  .  How  am  I  to  sell  that  inn?  " 

"  But  why  not  sell  it,  ma'am?  "  —  went  on  Ki- 
rillovna.  — "  Luckily,  a  purchaser  has  turned  up. 
Permit  me  to  inquire,  ma'am,  how  much  does  he 
offer  you?  " 

"  Over  two  thousand  rubles,"  — said  IJzaveta 
l'r(')khorovna,  softly. 

"  He  '11  give  more,  madam,  if  he  offers  two 
tliousand  at  the  first  word.  i\nd  you  can  set- 
tle with  Akim  afterward;  you  can  reduce  his  quit- 
rent,  I  su])pose.  —  He  will  still  be  grateful." 

"  Of  course,  his  (juit-rent  must  be  reduced. 
But  no,  Kirillovna;  how  can  I  sell?  .  .  ."     And 

28-1 


THE   IXX 

Lr/a\c'l;i  I*i"(')kli()i()\  ii.i  j)a('C'(l  up  and  down  the 
room.  .  .  .  "  \().  il  is  iinpossibk-:  it  isn't  ri^iit ; 
.  .  .  .  no:  pK'asc  say  no  more  to  mc  al)()nt  il  .  .  , 
or  I  sliall  get  an«^ry.   .   .   .  " 

liiit  in  s])itc  of  the  j)r()liil)ition  of  the  excited 
I^izaveta  Piokliorox  na,  Kirillovna  continued  to 
talk,  arid  half  an  Iiour  later  she  returned  to 
\auin,  whom  she  had  left  in  the  hiitlei-'s  |)a!itrv 
Avith  the  samovar. 

"  AVhat  have  you  to  tell  me,  my  most  re- 
spected?" —  said  Xaum.  foppishly  turning'  his 
empty  cuj)  upside  down  on  his  saucer. 

"  This  is  what  1  have  to  tell  you,"  —  returned 
Kirillovna:  —  "  that  you  are  to  go  to  the  mistress; 
she  bids  you  come." 

"  I  obey,  ma'am,"  —  replied  Xaum,  rising,  a?id 
followed  Kirillovna  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  door  closed  behind  them.  .  .  .  AVhen,  at 
last,  that  door  o})ened  again  and  Xaum  backed 
out  of  it  bowing,  the  matter  was  already  settled: 
Akim's  inn  belonged  to  him;  he  had  ae(|uired  it 
for  two  thousand  eight  hundred  i-nhies  in  bank- 
bills.'  They  had  decided  to  complete  the  deed 
of  sale  as  prom])tly  as  possil)le.  and  not  to  an- 
nounce the  sale  until  that  was  accomplished: 
Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  had  received  one  hundred 
rubles  as  deposit,  and  two  hundred  rubles  went  to 
Kirillovna  as  commission. 

'The  diflFerencc  in  value  hitwt'cn  paper  and  silver  money  was  con- 
siderable in  those  days,  and  the  sort  of  currency  is  jfenerally  specified. 
— Thansi.atoiu 

285 


THE  IXX 

"  1  liave  got  it  at  a  bargain,"  — tlioiiglit  Xaum 
as  he  climbed  into  liis  cart;  "  T  'ni  glad  it  tnrned 
out  well." 

At  tliat  \  ery  time,  when  the  bargain  wliieh  we 
have  described  was  being  effected  at  the  manor- 
house,  Akim  was  sitting  alone  on  the  wall-bench 
under  the  window,  in  his  own  room,  and  stroking 
his  beard  with  an  air  of  dis])leasure.  .  .  .  We 
have  stated  above  tliat  he  (Hd  not  suspect  his 
wife's  fondness  for  Xaum.  altliough  kind  persons 
had,  more  tlian  once,  hinted  to  liim  that  it  was 
liigh  time  for  liim  to  listen  to  reason;  of  course, 
he  himself  was  sometimes  able  to  observe  that 
his  housewife,  for  some  time  ])ast,  had  become 
more  restive;  but  tlien,  all  the  world  knows  that 
the  female  sex  is  vain  and  capricious.  Even  when 
it  really  seemed  to  liim  that  something  was  wrong, 
he  merely  waved  it  from  him ;  he  did  not  wish,  as 
the  saying  is,  to  raise  a  row;  his  good-nature  had 
not  diminished  with  the  years,  and,  moreover, 
indolence  was  making  itself  felt.  But  on  that  day 
he  was  very  much  out  of  sorts;  on  the  previous 
evening  he  had  unexpectedly  overheard  on  the 
street  a  conversation  between  his  maid-servant 
and  another  woman,  one  of  his  neighbours.  .  .  . 

The  woman  had  asked  his  maid-servant  wJiy 
she  had  not  run  in  to  see  her  on  the  evening  of 
the  holiday.    "  I  was  expecting  thee,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  I  would  have  come,"  — replied  the 
maid-servant,  —  "  but,  shameful  to  say.  I  caught 

286 


TIIK    I\\ 

the  niistri'ss  ;il  liir  cajHTs  ....  had  luck  to 
her!" 

"  'I'iioii  didst  calcli  lui"  .  .  .  /'  rcj)L'atc(l  thf 
])easant-\vilV  in  a  jKculiarly-drawling'  tone,  prop- 
inntr  licr  cheek  on  lier  hand.  —  "  And  where  (hdst 
tliou  catch  her.  my  mother?  " 

"  A\'hv,  hchind  the  hemp-patches— tlie  priest's 
hemp-patches.  Tlie  mistress,  seest  tliou,  had  gone 
out  to  tlie  hemp-patches  to  meet  that  feHow  of 
hers,  tliat  Xaum,  and  I  could  n't  see  in  tlic  dark, 
whether  because  of  the  moonlight,  or  what  not, 
the  Lord  kno\\'s,  and  so  I  ran  right  against  them." 

"  Thou  didst  run  against  them,"  —  rei)eated 
the  peasant-wife  again.  —  "  Well,  and  what  was 
she  doing,  mv  mother?  Was  slie  standing  with 
him?" 

"  Slie  was  standing,  right  enough.  He  was 
standing  and  she  was  standing.  She  caught 
sight  of  me,  and  says  slie:  '  Whither  art  thou 
running  to?  Take  thyself  off  home.'   Sol  went." 

"  Thou  wentest."  — The  peasant-wife  was  si- 
lent for  a  space.  — "  Well,  good-bye,  Fetfin'u- 
shka,"  —  she  said,  and  went  her  way. 

This  conversation  had  ])roduce(l  an  uni)leasant 
effect  on  iVkfni.  His  love  for  Avdotya  luid  al- 
ready grown  cold,  but,  ncvertlieless,  the  maid- 
servant's words  dis])leased  him.  And  she  had 
told  the  tiuth:  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Avdotya  had 
gone  out  that  evening  to  nieet  Xaum,  who  had 
waited  for  her  in   the  dense  shadow   which   fell 

287 


THE   IXX 

upon  the  road  from  the  tall  and  motionless  hemp- 
l)atcli.  Tiie  dew  had  drenched  its  every  stalk 
from  top  to  bottom;  the  scent,  ])owerfid  to 
the  point  of  oppressiveness,  lay  all  around.  The 
moon  had  only  just  risen,  huge  and  crimson,  in 
the  dim  and  the  blackish  mist.  Xaiim  had  heard 
Avdotya's  hasty  footsteps  from  afar,  and  had  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her.  She  reached  him  all  ])ale 
with  running;  the  moon  shone  directly  in  her  face. 

"  Well,  how  now;  hast  thou  brought  it?  "  —  he 
asked  her. 

"  Yes,  I  have," — she  rephed  in  an  irresolute 
tone:  — "  but,  Xaiim  Ivanovitch,  what  .  .  .  ." 

"  Give  it  here,  if  thou  hast  brought  it," — he 
interrupted  her,  stretching  out  his  hand. 

She  drew  from  beneath  her  kerchief  on  her 
neck  some  sort  of  packet.  Xaum  instantly 
grasped  it  and  thrust  it  into  his  breast. 

"  Naum  I vanitch,"  — enunciated  Avdotya, 
slowly,  and  without  taking  her  ej^es  from  him. 
..."  Okh,  Xaum  I\'anitch,  I  am  ruining  my 
soul  for  thee.  .  .  ." 

At  that  moment  the  maid-servant  had  come 
upon  them. 

So,  then,  Akim  was  sitting  on  the  wall-bench 
and  stroking  his  beard  with  his  dissatisfaction. 
Avdotya  kept  entering  the  house  and  leaving  it. 
He  merely  followed  her  with  his  eyes.  At  last 
she  entered  yet  again,  and  taking  a  warm  wadded 
jacket  from  the  little  room,  she  was  already  cross- 

288 


J 


TITK    I\X 

ing  the  thivshold :  l)iit  lie  could  fiuhnr  it  no 
longer,  and  l)egan  to  talk,  as  though  to  hiinsell': 

"  I  wonder,"  —  he  began,  — "  what  makes  tliese 
women-folks  always  so  fidgety!'  That  they 
should  sit  still  in  one  spot  is  something  that  can't 
be  demanded  of  them.  Tliat  's  no  affair  of  theirs. 
But  what  thev  do  love  is  to  be  runnin"-  off  some- 
wliere  oi'  other,  morning  or  evening.  —  Yes." 

Avdotya  heard  her  husband's  s])eech  out  to  the 
end  without  changing  her  attitude;  only,  at  the 
word  "  evening,"  she  moved  lier  head  a  mere  tri- 
fle, and  seemed  to  become  th(jughtful. 

"  Well,  Semyonitch," — she  said  at  last,  with 
irritation,  — "  't  is  well  known  that  when  thou  be- 
ginnest  to  talk,  why.  .  .  ." 

She  waved  her  hand  and  departed,  slamming 
the  door  behind  her.  Avdotya  did  not,  in  fact, 
hold  Akim's  eloquence  in  high  esteem,  and  it 
sometimes  happened,  wlien  he  undertook  of  an 
evening  to  argue  with  tlie  travellers,  or  began  to 
tell  stories,  she  would  yawn  quietly  or  walk  out 
of  the  room.  Akim  stared  at  the  closed  door.  .  .  . 
"  Wlien  thou  beginnest  to  talk,"  he  repeated  in 
an  undertone  .  .  .  .  "  that  \s  exactly  it.  tliat  1 
have  talked  "Very  little  witli  thee.  .  .  .  ^Vnd  who 
art  thou?  My  equal,  and,  moreover  .  .  .  ."  And 
he  rose,  meditated,  and  dealt  himself  a  blo^v  on 
the  na])e  of  his  neck  with  his  clenched  fist.   .   .   . 

A  few  days  passed  after  this  day  in  a  de- 
cidedly queer  manner.     Akfm  ke])t  on  staring  at 

•JSl) 


THE   IXN 

liis  wife,  as  tliough  he  were  preparing  to  say 
something  to  her;  and  she,  on  her  side,  darted 
suspicious  glances  at  him :  moreover,  both  of  them 
maintained  a  constrained  silence;  this  silence, 
however,  was  generally  broken  by  some  snappish 
remark  from  Akim  about  some  neglect  in  the 
liousekeeping,  or  on  the  subject  of  women  in 
general ;  Avdotya,  for  the  most  part,  did  not  an- 
swer him  with  a  single  word.  But,  despite  all 
Akim's  good-natured  weakness,  matters  would 
infallibly  have  come  to  a  decisive  explanation  be- 
tween him  and  Avdotya  had  it  not  been  for  the 
fact  that,  at  last,  an  incident  occurred,  after  which 
all  explanations  would  have  been  superfluous. 

Xamely,  one  morning,  Akim  and  his  wife  were 
just  preparing  to  take  a  light  meal  after  the 
noon  hoin*  (there  was  not  a  single  traveller  in  the 
inn,  after  the  summer  labours),  when  suddenly 
a  small  cart  rumbled  energetically  along  the 
road,  and  drew  up  at  the  porch.  Akim  glanced 
through  the  small  window,  frowned,  and  dro])])ed 
liis  eyes;  from  the  cart,  with(nit  haste,  Xaum 
alighted.  Avdotya  did  not  see  him,  but  when 
liis  voice  resounded  in  tlie  anteroom,  the  spoon 
trembled  weakly  in  her  liand.  He  ordered 
the  hired  man  to  put  his  horse  in  the  yard.  iVt 
last  tlie  door  flew  wide  open,  and  he  entered 
the  room. 

"  Morning," — he  said,  and  doff*ed  his  cap. 

"  ]\Iorning,"  —  repeated  .^Vkfm  through  his 
teeth.  — "  W'lience  has  (iod  brought  thee?  " 

290 


THE   IXX 

"  From  lilt'  iK'i^^lihoinliood,"— returned  the 
otiiei",  seatin«4-  liiinseH'  on  llic  \\all-l)eneh.  "  I 
come  from  the  hi(l\  -mistress." 

"  From  the  mistress,"  —  said  Akini,  still  inA 
rising  from  his  seat.  — "  On  husiness,  pray?  ' 

"  Yes,  on  husiness.  Avdotya  Arefyevna,  our 
respects  to  you." 

"  Good  morning,  Xaum,"  —  she  re])lied. 

All  remained  silent  for  a  space. 

"  What  have  you  there — some  sort  of  ])orridge, 
I  suppose?" — began  Naum.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  porridge,"  —  retorted  xVkim,  and  sud- 
denly paled:  —  "  but  it  is  n't  for  thee." 

Naum  darted  a  glance  of  astonishment  at 
Akim. 

"Why  is  n't  it  forme?" 

"  Why,  just  because  it  is  n't  for  thee."  — 
Akim's  eyes  began  to  flash,  and  he  smote  the 
table  with  his  fist.  —  "  There  is  nothin"-  in  mv 
house  for  thee,  dost  hear  me?  " 

"  What  ails  thee,  Semyoniteh,  what  ails  thee? 
What  's  the  matter  with  thee?  " 

"  There  's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  but  I  'm 
tired  of  tJtcc,  Xaum  Ivaniteh,  that  "s  what."  — The 
old  man  rose  to  his  feet,  trembling  all  over. — 
"  Thou  hast  taken  to  haunting  my  house  alto- 
gether too  much,  that  's  what." 

Naiim  also  rose  to  his  fe^ 

"  Thou  hast  gone  crazy,  brother,  T  do  believe," 
— he  said  with  a  smile.  — "  Avdotya  ^Vrefyevna, 
what  's  the  matter  with  him?  "... 

291 


THE   IXX 

"  I  tell  thee,"  — yelled  Akiiii,  in  a  quivering 
voice.  —  "  get  out.  Dost  hear  me? ....  AVhat  hast 
thou  to  do  with  Avdotya  Arefyevna?  ....  Be- 
gone, I  tell  thee!    Dost  hear  me?  " 

"What  's  that  thou  art  saying  to  me?  "—in- 
quired Xaiim,  significantly. 

"  Take  thyself  away  from  here ;  that  's  what 
I  'm  saying  to  thee.  There  is  God,  and  there  is 
the  threshold  ....  dost  understand?  or  't  will 
be  the  worse  for  thee!  " 

Xaum  strode  forward. 

"  Good  heavens,  don't  fight,  my  dear  little 
doves,"  — stammered  Avdotya,  who  until  then 
had  remained  sitting  motionless  at  the  table.  .  .  . 

Naiim  cast  a  glance  at  her. 

"  Don't     worrv,     Avdotva     Arefvevna,     whv 

^  •  *  '  * 

should  we  fight!  Ek-sta,  brother," — he  con- 
tinued, addressing  Akim:  — "  thou  hast  deafened 
me  with  thy  yells.  Really.  What  an  inso- 
lent fellow  thou  art!  Did  any  one  ever  hear  of 
such  a  thing  as  expelling  a  man  from  another 
man's  house,"  —  added  Xaiim.  with  deliberate 
enunciation:  — "  and  the  master  of  the  house,  into 
the  bargain?  " 

"  What  dost  thou  mean  by  another  man's 
house?  "  —  muttered  Akim.  —  "  What  master  of 
the  house?  " 

"  Why,  me,  for  examj)le." 

And  X^aum  screwed  u])  his  eyes,  and  displayed 
his  white  teeth  in  a  grin. 

292 


THE   I XX 

"Thee,  forsooth:'  yMiTt  1  tlie  master  of*  the 
luHise?  " 

"  Wliat  a  stupid  fellow  thou  art,  my  good 
fellow.  —  I  am  the  master  of  the  house,  I  tell 
thee." 

Akim  opened  his  eyes  to  their  widest. 

"  What  nonsense  is  that  thou  art  prating,  as 
though  thou  hadst  eaten  mad-wort?  "  —  he  said 
at  last.  — "  How  the  devil  dost  thou  come  to  be 
the  master?  " 

"  Well,  what  's  the  use  of  talking  to  thee,"  — 
shouted  Xaum,  impatiently.  — "  Dost  see  this 
document,"  — he  added,  jerking  out  of  his  ])ocket 
a  sheet  of  stamped  ])aper  folded  in  four:  — "  dost 
see  it?  This  is  a  deed  of  sale,  understand,  a  deed 
of  sale  for  thy  land,  and  for  the  inn;  I  have 
bought  them  from  the  landed  proprietress,  I^iza- 
veta  Prokhorovna.  We  signed  the  deed  of  sale 
yesterday,  in  B***— consequently,  I  am  the  mas- 
ter here,  not  thou.  (Tather  ui^  thv  duds  this  very 
day,"  —  he  added,  putting  the  paper  back  in  his 
pocket;  —  "  and  let  there  be  not  a  sign  of  thee  here 
by  to-morrow;  hearest  thou?  " 

xVkim  stood  as  though  he  had  been  struck  by 
lightning. 

"  Brigand!  "  —  he  moaned  at  last;  — "the  brig- 
and. .  .  Hey,  Fedka,  ^Iitka,  wife,  wife,  seize 
him,  seize  him  — hold  him!" 

He  had  com])letely  lost  his  wits. 

"Look    out,    look    out,"  — ejaculated     Xaiiin 

21)3 


THE  INN 


I  will  go  myself.     I 
.  .  .  but   why 


menacingly:  —  "  look  out,  old  man,  don't  play  the 
fool.  .  .  ." 

"  But  beat  him,  beat  him,  wife!  "— Akim  kept 
repeating  in  a  tearful  voice,  vainly  and  impo- 
tently  trying  to  leave  his  place.  — "  The  soul- 
ruiner,  the  brigand.  .  .  She  was  n't  enough  for 
thee  .  .  .  tliou  wantest  to  take  my  house  away 
from  me  also,  and  everything.  .  .  .  But  no,  stay 
....  that  cannot  be.  .  . 
will  tell  her  myself  .  .  .  how 
sell?  .  .  .   Stop  ....  stop.  .  .  ." 

And  he  rushed  hatless  into  the  street. 

"  AVhither  art  thou  running,  Akim  Ixanitch. 
^vhither  art  thou  running,  dear  little  father^  ' — 
cried  the  maid-servant  Fetinya,  M'ho  colhded  M'ith 
him  in  the  doorway. 

"To  the  mistress!  let  me  go!  To  the  mis- 
tress. .  .  ."  roared  Akim,  and  catching  sight  of 
Xaum's  cart,  M'hich  the  servants  had  not  yet  had 
time  to  put  in  the  stable-yard,  he  si)rang  into  it, 
Keized  the  reins,  and  lashing  the  horse  witli  all 
his  might,  he  set  off  at  a  gallo])  to  the  lady's 
manor-house. 

"  Dear  little  mother,  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna," 
—he  kept  repeating  to  himself  all  the  way,— 
"  why  such  unkindness?  I  have  shown  zeal,  me- 
Ihinks!" 

And,  in  the  meantime,  he  kept  on  beating  the 
horse.  Those  w  bo  met  him  drew  aside  and  i»azed 
long  after  him. 

294 


THE   IXN 

Jii  a  ({iiartci-  of*  an  liom-  Akim  had  iraclu-d 
Lizavt'ta  l^rokliorox  na's  manor,  had  (hishcd  iij) 
to  the  porch,  liad  leaped  from  the  eait,  and  hurst 
straight  into  the  anteroom. 

"  Wliat  dost  thovi  want?  "  -muttered  the  star- 
tled footman,  who  was  sweetly  dozing  on  the 
locker. 

"  The  mistress— I  must  see  the  mistress,"  vocif- 
erated Akim  loudly. 

The  lackey  was  astounded. 

"  Has  anything  happened?  "  —  he  hegan. 

"  Nothing  has  happened,  hut  I  must  see  the 
mistress." 

"What,  what?" — said  the  lackey,  more  and 
more  astounded,  straightening  liimself  up. 

Akim  i-ecovered  himself.  .  .  It  was  as  though 
he  had  been  drenched  with  cold  water. 

"  Announce  to  the  mistress,  Piotr  Evgrafitch," 
—  he  said,  with  a  low  obeisance,  —  "  that  Akim 
wishes  to  see  her.  ..." 

"  Good,  ...  1  will  go  ...  .  I  will  an- 
nounce thee  ....  but  evidently  thou  art 
drunk.  \Vait,"— grumbled  the  lackey,  and  w  itli- 
drew. 

^Vkim  dropped  his  eyes  and  became  confused, 
as  it  were.  .  .  .  His  l)o]diiess  had  swiftly  al)an- 
doned  him  from  the  very  moment  he  had  entered 
the  anteroom. 

liizaveta  Prokhorovna  was  also  disconcerted 
when  Akim's  arrival  was  announced  to  her.     She 

295 


THE   IXX 

iiiiiiR'diately  gave  orders  that  Kirillovna  should 
be  called  to  her  in  her  boudoir. 

"  I  cannot  receive  him,"  —  she  said  hurriedly, 
as  soon  as  the  latter  made  her  appearance;  — "  I 
cannot  possibly  do  it.  \Vhat  can  I  sav  to  him? 
Did  n't  I  tell  thee  that  he  would  be  sure  to  come 
and  would  com]dain :"  "  — she  added,  a\  ith  vexa- 
tion and  agitation;  — "  I  said  so.  .  .  ." 

"  \Vhv  should  vou  receive  him,  ma'am?"  — 
calmly  replied  Kirillovna;  —  "that  is  not  neces- 
sarv,  ma'am.  Wh^•  should  vou  disturb  vourseli, 
pray  ? 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"  If  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  talk  with  him." 

Lizaveta  l^rokhorovna  raised  her  head. 

"  Pray,  do  me  the  favour,  Kirillovna.  Do  talk 
with  him.  Do  thou  tell  him  ....  there  — well, 
that  I  found  it  necessary  .  .  .  and,  moreover, 
that  I  will  make  it  up  to  him  ....  well,  there 
now,  thou  knowest  what  to  say.  Pray,  do,  Kiril- 
lovna." 

"  Please  do  not  fret,  madam,"  —  returned  Ki- 
rillovna, and  withdrew,  with  squeaking  shoes. 

A  (juarter  of  an  hour  had  not  elapsed  when 
their  squeaking  became  audible  again,  and  Ki- 
rillovna entered  the  ])oudoir  with  the  same  com- 
posed expression  on  her  face,  with  the  same 
crafty  intelligence  in  her  eves. 

"  Well,"  — iiKjui red  her  mistress,  —  "  how  about 
Akim?" 

296 


J 


TTTE   TXN 

"  'T  is  all  right,  iiia'aui.  He  says,  ma'am,  that 
everytliing  is  in  your  power,  he  suhmits  himself 
wholly  to  the  ^\ill  of  your  (rraciousness,  and  if 
only  you  keep  well  and  i)ros])erous,  he  will  for- 
ever be  satisfied  with  his  lot." 

"  And  he  made  no  complaint?  " 

"  None  whatever,  ma'am.  What  was  there 
for  him  to  c()m])lain  about?" 

"  But  why  did  he  come,  then?  "  —  said  I^izaveta 
Prokhorovna,  not  \\'ithout  some  surprise. 

"  Why,  he  came  to  ask,  ma'am,  until  he  receives 
compensation,  whether  you  will  not  be  so  gracious 
as  to  remit  his  quit-rent  for  the  coming  year,  that 
is  to  say  .  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  I  \\ill!  I  will  remit  it,"  —  put 
in  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  with  vivacity;  —  "of 
course.  And,  tell  him,  in  general  terms,  that  I 
will  reward  him.  \\^ell,  1  thank  thee,  Kirillovna. 
And  he  is  a  good  peasant,  I  see.  Stay," — she 
added:  —  "here,  give  him  this  from  me."  —  And 
she  took  out  of  her  work-table  a  three-ruble  bill. — 
"  Here,  take  this  and  give  it  to  him." 

"  I  obey,  ma'am,"  — replied  Kirillovna,  and 
coolly  returning  to  her  own  room,  she  coolly 
locked  up  the  bank-bill  in  an  iron-bound  casket 
which  stood  by  the  head  of  her  bed;  she  kept  in 
it  all  her  ready  money,  and  the  amount  was  not 
small 

Kirillovna  by  her  report  had  sootlied  her  la(i\-. 
but  the  conversation  between  her  and  Aki'm  had. 

21)7 


THE   IXX 

in  realitj',  not  been  jjreciselv  as  she  represented 
it,  but  to  wit:  she  had  ordered  him  to  be  sum- 
moned to  her  in  the  maids'  liall.  At  first  he  re- 
fused to  go  to  her,  declaring  that  he  did  not  wish 
to  see  Kirillovna,  but  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  her- 
self; nevertheless,  at  last,  he  submitted,  and 
wended  his  way  tlirough  the  back  door  to  Kiril- 
lovna. He  found  her  alone.  On  entering  the 
room  he  came  to  a  halt  at  once,  leaned  against  the 
wall  near  the  door,  and  made  an  effort  to  speak 
....  and  coidd  not. 

Kirillovna  stared  intently  at  him. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  mistress,  Akim  Se- 
myonitch?  "—she  began. 

He  merely  nodded  his  head. 

"  That  is  impossible,  Akim  Semyonitch.  And 
what  is  the  use?  AVhat  is  done  can't  be  undone, 
and  you  will  only  worry  her.  She  cannot  receive 
you  now,  Akim  Semyonitch." 

"  She  cannot,"— he  repeated,  and  paused  for 
a  space.—"  Then  how  is  it  to  be,"— he  said  at 
last;  — "  that  means  that  I  must  lose  my  house?  " 

"  Hearken,  Akim  Semyonitch.  I  know  that 
you  have  always  been  a  reasonable  man.  This  is 
the  mistress's  will.  iVnd  it  cannot  be  chano'ed. 
You  cannot  alter  it.  There  is  nothing  for  you 
and  me  to  discuss,  for  it  will  lead  to  no  result. 
Is  n't  that  so?" 

Akim  put  his  hands  behind  liis  back. 

"  But  you  had  better  consider," — went  on  Ki- 

298 


TIIK   IXN 

nllovna,  "wlictlitr  yon  ought  not  to  ask  the 
mistress  to  remit  your  (juit-i-ent,  had  n't  you?  .  .  ." 

"  That  means  that  1  must  lose  the  house,"  — 
repeated  .iVkim,  in  the  same  tone  as  before. 

"  Akim  Semyoniteh,  1  've  told  you  already 
't  is  impossible  to  change  that.  You  know  that 
yourself  even  better  than  I  do." 

"  Yes.  But  tell  me,  at  any  rate,  how  much 
my  inn  sold  for?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Akim  Semyoniteh;  I  can't 
tell  you.  .  .  .  But  whv^ do  vou  stand  there?"  — 
she  added.  — "  Sit  down.  .  .  ." 

"  I  11  stand  as  I  am,  ma'am.  I  'm  a  peasant. 
I  thank  you  humbly." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  you  are  a  peasant, 
Akim  Semyoniteh  ?  You  are  the  same  as  a  mer- 
chant;  you  cannot  be  compared  even  with  the 
house-serfs;  why  do  you  say  that?  Don't  decry 
yourself  without  cause.  Won't  you  luive  some 
tea?" 

"  Xo,  thanks;  I  don't  require  it.  And  so  mj'' 
dear  little  house  has  l)ecome  your  ])roperty,"  — 
he  added,  (juitting  tlie  wall.  —  "  Thanks  for  that, 
also.     I  will  bid  you  good  day,  my  little  madam." 

Thereupon  he  wlieeled  round,  and  left  the 
room.  Kii  illovna  smoothed  ilown  her  apron,  and 
betook  herself  to  her  mistress. 

"  So  it  appears  that  I  actually  have  become  a 
merchant,"  —  said  Akim  to  himself,  as  he  paused 
in  thouglit  before  the  gate.  —  "  A  fine  merchant!  " 

299 


THE   IX X 

He  waved  his  liand  and  laughed  a  bitter  hiugh. 
— "  Well,  I  might  as  well  go  home!  " 

And  utterly  oblivious  of  X'^aiim's  horse,  which 
he  had  driven  thither,  he  trudged  along  the  road 
to  the  inn.  Before  he  had  covered  the  first  verst, 
he  heard  the  rattle  of  a  cart  alongside  of  him. 

"  Akim,  Akini  Semyonitch!  " — some  one  called 
to  him. 

He  raised  his  eyes  and  beheld  his  acquaintance, 
the  chanter  of  the  parish  church,  Efrem,  nick- 
named "  The  jNlole,"  a  small,  round-shouldered 
man,  with  a  shar])-pointed  little  nose,  and  pur- 
blind eyes.  He  was  sitting  in  a  rickety  little  cart 
on  a  whisp  of  straw,  with  his  breast  leaning  on 
the  driver's  seat. 

"  Art  thou  on  thy  way  home,  pray?  " — he  asked 
Akim. 

Akim  halted. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  '11  drive  you  there, — shall  I?  " 

"  All  right,  do." 

Efrem  moved  aside,  and  Akim  clambered  into 
the  cart.  Efrem,  who  was  jolly  with  drink,  it 
appeared,  set  to  lashing  his  miserable  little  nag 
with  the  ends  of  his  rope  reins ;  the  horse  advanced 
at  a  weary  trot,  incessantly  twitching  her  un- 
bridled muzzle. 

They  drove  about  a  verst,  without  saying  one 
word  to  each  other.     Akim  sat  with  bowed  head, 

300 


11  IK    IX X 

and  Kf'rcm  iiicrcly  imiml)lc(l  soiiR'tliiii^  to  Ijiiu- 
scli',  now  stinmlaling'  llic  lioisc  to  grcatci-  speed, 
now  reining  it  in. 

"^VlHtlle^  hast  thou  been  w  illiout  a  hat,  Seniyo- 
nitch?"  — he  suddenly  asked  ^Aki'ni,  and,  witliout 
waiting  lor  a  reply,  he  went  on  in  an  undertone: 
— "  thou  hast  left  it  in  a  niee  little  drani-sho}), 
that  's  what.  Thou  'rt  a  ti])pler;  1  know  thee, 
and  I  love  thee  beeause  thou  art  a  tip])ler — 't  was 
high  time,  long  ago,  to  plaee  thee  under  eeelesi- 
astical  eensure,  (rod  is  my  witness;  because  t  is 
a  bad  business.  .  .  .  Hurrah!  "  —  he  shouted  sud- 
denly, at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  — "  hurrah!  hur- 
rah!" 

"Halt!  halt!"  —  rang  out  a  woman's  voice 
close  fit  hand.-"  Halt!" 

Akim  glanced  round.  Across  the  fields,  in  the 
direction  of  the  cart,  a  woman  was  running,  so 
pale  and  dishevelled  that  he  did  not  recognise  her 
at  first. 

"Halt,  halt!"  —  she  moaned  again,  panting 
and  waving  her  arms. 

Akim  shuddered:  it  was  his  wife. 

He  seized  the  reins. 

"And  why  should  we  halt;'"  —  muttered 
Efrem;— "why  should  we  lialt  for  a  female;" 
Get  u-uup!  " 

But  Akim  jerked  the  horse  abruj)lly  on  its 
haunches. 

301 


THE   IXX 

At  that  iiioiiieiit  .Vvtlotya  reached  the  road, 
and  fairly  tumbled  headlong,  face  downward,  in 
the  dust. 

"  Dear  little  father,  Akim  Semyonitch," — she 
shrieked;  — "  lie  has  actually  turned  me  out  of 
doors!  " 

Akim  gazed  at  her,  and  (Ud  not  move,  but 
merely  drew  the  reins  still  more  taut. 

"  Hurrah!  "  —  cried   Efrem   again. 

"And  so  he  has  turned  thee  out?"  —  said 
Akim. 

"  He  has,  dear  little  father,  my  dear  little 
dove,"  replied  Avdotya,  sobbing.  —  "  He  has 
turned  me  out,  dear  little  father.  '  The  house  is 
mine  now,'  says  he;  '  so  get  out,'  says  he." 

"  Capital,  that  's  just  fine  .  .  .  capital!  "—re- 
marked Kfreni. 

"  And  thou  wert  counting  on  remaining,  I 
sup])ose?  "  —  said  Akim,  bitterly,  as  he  continued 
to  sit  in  the  cart. 

"  Remain,  indeed!  Yes,  dear  little  father,"  — 
put  in  Avdotya.  ulio  had  raised  herself  on  her 
knees,  and  again  beat  her  brow  against  the 
ground;  — "for  thou  dost  not  know,  seest  thou, 
I.  .  .  .  Kill  me,  Akim  Semyonitch,  kill  me  here, 
on  the  spot.  .  .  ." 

"  Whv  should  I  beat  thee,  Arefvevna!  "  — re- 
])lied  ^Akim,  dejectedly:  —  "  thou  hast  vanquished 
thyself!  what  more  is  there  to  say?  " 

"  But    wlmt    wilt    tbnu    tliink.    Akmi    Semyo- 

302 


TlIK    INN 

nildi.  .  .  .  Why,  liii'  iiioir-v  ....  was  thy 
money.  ...  It  is  «>()ir',  lliy  uioiicy.  .  .  Fni'  1  took 
it,  accursed  that  I  am,  I  ^ot  it  from  the  cellar. 
....  I  gave  it  all  to  that  man,  that  villain,  that 
Xaum,  accursed  creatuie  tliat  J  am!  .  .  .  Aiid 
why  didst  thou  tell  me  where  thou  liadst  hidden 
thv  money,  wretelied  beiuii' that  I  ami  •  •  ■  •  For 
he  bought  the  iim  with  thy  money  ....  the  vil- 
lain.  .   .   ." 

Sobs  drowned  her  voice. 

Akim  clutched  his  head  with  both  hands. 

"  What!  " — he  screamed  at  last;  — "  and  so  all 
the  money  too  .  .  .  the  money,  and  the  inn,  thou 
hast.  .  .  .  Ah!  thou  hast  got  it  from  the  cellar 
.  .  .  .  from  the  cellar.  .  .  .  Ves,  1  w  ill  kill  thee, 
thou  brood  of  vipers!  .   .   ." 

And  he  leaped  from  the  cart.   .   .   . 

"  Semyoniteh,  Semy(')nitch,  dont  heat  her, 
don't  fight,"  —  stammeied  Kfrem,  whose  intoxi- 
cation began  to  (lissi])ate  at  such  an  unex])ecte(l 
event. 

"  Yes,  dear  little  father,  kill  me,  kill  me,  dear 
little  father,  kill  me,  the  \ile  creature:  l^eat  away, 
don't  heed  him! "  — shiieked  ^Vvdotva,  as  she 
writhed  convulsively  at  Akfm's  feet. 

He  stood  awhile  and  stared  at  iiei-,  tlien  re- 
treated a  few  paces,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass, 
by  the  roadside. 

A  brief  silence  ensued.  Avdotya  turned  her 
head  in  his  direction. 

303 


THE   IXX 

"  Seiiiyonitch,  hey,  Seniyonitch!  "  —  began 
Efreni,  half -rising  in  tlie  cart;  —  "  have  done  with 
that  — that  will  do  .  .  .  for  thou  canst  not  re- 
pair the  calamity.  Phew,  what  an  affair!  "  —  he 
continued,  as  thougli  to  himself;  —  "  what  a 
damned  bad  woman.  .  .  Do  thou  go  to  him,"  — 
he  added,  bending  over  the  cart-rail  toward  Av- 
dotya;  — "canst  not  see  that  he  has  gone  crazy?  " 

Avdotya  rose,  approached  Akim  and  again  fell 
at  his  feet. 

"  Dear  little  fatlier,"  —  she  began  in  a  faint 
voice. 

Akim  rose  and  went  back  to  the  cart.  She 
clutclied  the  skirt  of  his  kaftan. 

"Get  away!" — he  shouted  fiercely,  repulsing 
her. 

"  AVhither  art  thou  going?  "  — Efrem  asked 
liim,  percei^•ing  that  he  was  taking  his  seat  again 
beside  him. 

"  Why,  thou  didst  ofi'er  to  drive  me  to  the  inn," 
—  said  Akim:  —  "so  drive  me  to  thy  house.  .  .  . 
1  have  none  any  more,  seest  thou.  They  have 
bought  it  from  me,  you  know." 

"  Well,  all  right,  let  's  go  to  my  iiouse.  xVnd 
how  about  her?  " 

Akim  made  no  answer. 

"And  me,  me,"  — chimed  in  Avdotya,  weeping; 
— "  to  whose  care  dost  tliou  leave  me  .... 
whither  am  I  to  go?  " 

"  Go  to  him,"  — returned  Akim,  without  turn- 

304j 


TIIK   I\X 

iiig  round:  —  "  to   tlic  man   to  wlioni   tlioii   didst 
carrv  niv  nionc'v.  .  .  Drive  on,  Efreni!  " 

•  •  •  - 

Kfrcni  whipped  up  the  horse,  the  eart  lolled 
off,  and  Avdotya  set  up  a  shrill  scream.  .  .  . 

Efrem  lived  a  \erst  from  Akim's  inn,  in  a  tiny 
cot  in  the  i)riest's  glehe,  dis])osed  around  the  soli- 
tary  tive-domed  church,  which  had  recently  heen 
erected  by  the  heirs  of  a  wealthv  merchant,  in 
conformity  with  his  testamentary  dis])ositions. 
Efrem  did  not  s])eak  to  Akim  all  the  way,  and 
only  shook  his  head  from  time  to  time,  uttering 
words  of  the  following  nature:  "  Akh,  thou  I" 
and,  "  Ekh,  thou !  "  Akim  sat  motionless,  slightly 
turned  away  from  Efrem.  At  last  they  arrived. 
Efrem  sprang  out  first  from  the  cart.  A  little 
girl  of  six  years  in  a  little  chemise  girt  low  ran 
out  to  meet  him,  and  screamed: 

"Daddy!  daddy !'' 

"And  where  is  tliy  mother?  "  —  Efrem  asked 
her. 

"  She  's  asleep  in  the  kennel." 

"  \¥ell,  let  her  sleep.  xVkim  Semyonitch,  won't 
you  please  come  into  the  house?  " 

(It  must  be  observed  that  Efrem  addressed 
him  as  "  thou  "  only  when  lie  was  intoxicated. 
Far  more  important  persons  than  he  addressed 
Akim  as  "  you.") 

Akim  entered  the  chanter's  cottage. 

"  Pray,  come  liither  to  the  bench,"  —  said 
Efrem.  — "  Run   along,   you    little   rogues,"  —  he 

305 


/ 


THE  IXX 

slioiited  at  three  otlier  brats  who,  along  with  two 
einaeiated  cats  bespattered  with  ashes,  suddenly 
made  their  appearance  from  various  corners  of 
the  room.  — "Run  away!  Scat!  Here,  Akim 
Seniyonitcli,  come  here,"  —  he  went  on,  as  he 
seated  his  Quest:  — "  and  would  n't  vou  like  some- 
thing?  " 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  thee,  Efrem?  "—articu- 
lated ^Vkim  at  last.  —  "  Could  n't  I  have  some 
liquor?  " 

Efrem  gave  a  start. 

"Liquor?  Certainly.  I  have  none  in  the  house, 
— liquor,  that  is  to  say, — but  here,  I  '11  run  at  once 
to  Father  Fe(Sdor.  He  always  has  some  on  hand. 
....  I  '11  be  back  in  a  jifFy.  .  .  ." 

And  he  snatched  up  his  large-eared  cap. 

"  And  bring  as  much  as  possible;  I  '11  pay  for 
it,"— shouted  Akim  after  him.  —  "  I  still  have 
money  enough  for  that." 

"  In  a  jiffy,"  .  .  .  repeated  Efrem  once 
more,  as  he  disappeared  through  the  door.  He 
really  did  retiu'n  very  speedily  with  two  quart 
bottles  under  his  arm,  one  of  which  was  already 
uncorked,  placed  them  on  the  table,  got  out  two 
small  green  glasses,  the  heel  of  a  loaf,  and  salt. 

"  That  's  wliat  1  love," — he  kept  repeating,  as 
lie  seated  liimself  opposite  Aki'm.  — "  What  's  the 
use  of  grieving?  "  —  he  filled  the  glasses  for  botli 
....  and  set  to  babbling.  .  .  .  Avdotya's  belia- 
viour  had  stunned  him.  — "  'T  is  an  astonishing 

306 


THE  INN 

affair,  truly,"  — said  he:  — "  how  did  it  come 
about  ^  He  must  have  bewitched  lier  to  himself 
by  magic  ....  hey?  That  's  what  it  means, 
that  a  woman  should  be  strictly  watched!  She 
ought  to  liave  had  a  tight  liand  ke])t  over  her. 
And  yet,  it  would  n't  be  a  bad  thing  for  j'ou  to 
go  home ;  for  you  must  have  a  lot  of  property  left 
there,  I  think."  —  And  to  many  more  speeches  of 
the  same  sort  did  Efrem  give  utterance;  when  he 
was  drinking  he  did  not  like  to  hold  his  tongue. 
An  hour  later,  this  is  what  took  place  in 
Efrem's  house.  Akim,  who  had  not  replied  by  a 
single  word,  during  the  entire  course  of  the  drink- 
ing-bout, to  the  interrogations  and  comments  of 
his  loquacious  host,  and  liad  merely  drained  glass 
after  glass,  was  fast  asleep  on  the  oven,  all  red 
in  the  face — in  a  heavy,  anguished  slumber;  the 
youngsters  were  wondering  at  him,  while  Efrem 
.  .  .  .  Alas!  Efrem  was  aslee])  also,  but  only  in 
a  very  cramped  and  cold  lumber-room,  in  wliicli 
he  had  been  locked  up  by  his  wife,  a  woman  of 
extremely  masculine  and  robust  build.  He 
had  gone  to  her  in  the  stable,  and  liad  begun  to 
threaten  her,  if  she  repeated  sometliing  or  other, 
but  so  incoherentlv  and  unintelligiblv  did  he  ex- 
press  himself  that  she  instantly  divined  wJuit  the 
trouble  was,  grasped  him  by  the  collar,  and  led 
him  to  the  proper  place.  However,  he  sle]it  very 
well  and  even  comfortably  in  the  lumber-room. 
Habit! 

307 


THE  INN 

Kirillovna  had  not  reported  her  conversation 
with  Akim  very  accurately  to  Lizaveta  Prokho- 
rovna  ....  and  the  same  ma}'  be  said  concern- 
ing Avdotya.  Naiim  had  not  turned  her  out  of 
the  house,  although  she  had  told  Akim  that  he 
had  done  so;  he  had  not  the  right  to  expel  her. 
.  .  .  He  was  bound  to  give  the  former  proprie- 
tors time  to  move  out.  Explanations  of  quite 
another  sort  had  taken  place  between  him  and 
Avdotya.  When  Akim  had  rushed  into  the  street, 
shouting  that  he  would  go  to  the  mistress,  Avdo- 
tya had  turned  to  Naiim,  had  stared  at  him  with 
all  her  eyes,  and  clasped  her  hands. 

"O  Lord!"  — she  began;  — "Naiim  Ivanitch, 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this?  Have  you  bought 
our  inn? " 

"What  if  I  have,  ma'am?"— he  retorted.— 
"  I  have  bought  it,  ma'am." 

Avdotya  said  nothing  for  a  while,  then  sud- 
denly took  fright. 

"  So  that  is  what  you  wanted  the  money  for?  " 

"  Precisely  as  you  are  pleased  to  put  it,  ma'am. 
Ehe,  I  do  believe  that  measly  little  husband  of 
yours  has  driven  off  with  mv  horse,"— he  added, 
as  the  rumble  of  wheels  reached  his  ear.  —  "  What 
a  fine  dashing  fellow  he  is!  " 

"Why,  but  this  is  robbery,  nothing  else!  "  — 
shrieked  Avdotya.  —  "  For  the  money  is  ours,  my 
husband's,  and  the  inn  is  ours  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,   ma'am,    Avdotya   Arefyevna,"  — Naiim 

308 


THE   INN 

interrupted  her:—  '^  tlie  inn  was  n't  yours,  and 
what  's  the  use  of  saying-  so;  the  inn  stood  on  tlie 
hidy-mistress's  huid,  so  it  Ixlonged  to  liei-  also; 
and  the  money  really  was  \<)mi-s.  oidv  vou  were 
so  kind,  1  may  i)ul  it.  as  to  eontrihute  it  to  me, 
ma'am;  and  I  shall  lemain  <>rateful  to  you,  and 
shall  even,  if  the  oecasion  arises,  return  it  to 
you, — if  1  should  see  my  way  to  it;  only,  it  is  n't 
right  that  I  should  strip  myself  hare.  Just  judge 
for  yourself  if  that  is  n't  so." 

Naiim  said  all  this  very  calmly,  and  even  with 
a  slight  smile. 

"  Good  heavens!  "  —  screamed  Avdotya;  — 
"but  what  's  the  meaning  of  this?  AVhat  is  it? 
But  how  am  I  to  show  myself  in  my  husband's 
sight  after  this?  Thou  villain!  "  —  she  added, 
gazing  with  hatred  at  Naum's  young,  fresh  face; 
— "  have  n"t  1  ruined  my  soul  for  thee,  have  n't 
I  become  a  thief  for  thy  sake,  hast  not  thou  turned 
us  out  of  doors,  thou  abominable  villain?  !  After 
this  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  put  a  noose 
about  my  neck,  villain,  deceiver,  tiiou  destroyer 
of  me.  .  .  ." 

And  she  wept  in  torrents.   .   .  . 

"  Pray,  don't  woi-ry,  Avdotya  Arefyevna," — 
said  Naum; — "  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing;  a  fellow 
must  look  out  for  number  one;  moreover,  that's 
what  the  pike  is  in  the  sea  for,  Avdotya  Are- 
fyevna—  to  keep  the  eai-p  f'roni  getting  drowsy." 

"  Where   are   we   to  go   now,   what    is    to   be- 

309 


THE  IXX 

come  of  us?  "  — stauiniercd  Avdotya  tlirougli  her 

tears. 

"  That  's  more  than  I  can  tell,  ma'am." 

"  But  I  '11  cut  thy  throat,  thou  villain;  I  will, 

I  will!  ..." 

"  Xo,  you  won't  do  that,  Avdotva  Arefvevna; 
what  's  the  use  of  saying  that?  But  I  see  that  it 
will  he  hetter  for  me  to  go  aw^ay  from  here  for 
a  while,  or  you  will  he  much  upset.  ...  I  will, 
bid  you  good  day,  ma'am,  and  to-morrow  I  shall 
return  without  fail.  .  .  .  And  you  will  be  so 
good  as  to  permit  me  to  send  my  hired  men  to 
you  to-day,"— he  added,  while  Avdotya  con- 
tinued to  repeat,  through  her  tears,  that  she  would 
cut  his  throat  and  her  own  also. 

"  And  yonder  they  come,  by  the  way,"  — he  re- 
marked, looking  out  of  tlic  window.  "  Otherwise, 
some  catastrophe  might  happen,  which  God  for- 
bid. .  .  .  INIatters  will  be  more  tranquil  so.  Do 
me  the  favour  to  get  your  belongings  together 
to-dav,  ma'am,  while  thev  will  stand  guard  over 
you  and  help  you,  if  you  like.  I  bid  you  good 
day,  ma'am." 

He  bowled,  left  the  room  and  called  his  men  to 

him.  .  .  . 

Avdotya  sank  down  on  the  wall-bench,  tlien 
laid  herself  breast  down  on  the  table,  and  began 
to  wring  lier  hands,  then  suddenly  sprang  to  her 
feet,  and  ran  after  her  husband.  .  .  .  We  liave 
described  their  meeting. 

310 


THE   IXX 

When  Akini  drove  away  from  her  in  company 
with  Efrem,  leaving  her  alone  in  tlie  fields,  she 
first  wept  i'or  a  lono'  time,  without  stii-i-Ing  from 
the  spot.  Having  wept  her  fill  she  direeted  her 
conrse  to  the  mistress's  manor.  It  was  a  hitter 
thing  for  her  to  enter  the  house,  and  still  more 
hitter  to  show  herself  in  the  maids'-hall.  All  the 
maids  flew^  to  greet  her  with  sympathy  and  ex- 
pressions of  regret.  At  the  siglit  of  them,  Av- 
dotva  conld  not  restrain  her  tears;  thev  fairlv 
gushed  forth  from  her  red  and  swoller)  eyes. 
Completely  unnerved,  she  dro|)[)ed  down  on  the 
first  chair  she  came  to.  They  ran  for  Kirillovna. 
Kirillovna  came,  treated  her  very  affectionately, 
but  would  not  admit  her  to  see  the  mistress,  any 
more  than  she  had  admitted  ^\kim.  Avdotya  her- 
self did  not  insist  very  strongly  on  seeing  Liza- 
veta  Prokhorovna;  she  had  come  to  the  manor- 
house  solely  because  she  positively  did  not  know 
where  to  lay  her  licad. 

Kirillovna  ordered  the  samovai-  to  l)e  pre])ared. 
For  a  long  time  Avdotya  refused  to  drink  tea, 
but  yielded,  at  last,  to  the  entreaties  and  ])ei- 
suasions  of  all  the  maids,  and  after  the  first  cuj) 
drank  four  more.  When  Kirillo\na  ])erceived 
that  her  visitor  was  somewhat  pacified,  and  only 
shuddered  from  time  to  time,  sobbing  faintly,  shi* 
asked  her  wliither  they  intended  to  remove,  and 
what  they  wislied  to  do  with  their  things.  'I'his 
question  set  Avdotya  to  crying  again,  and  sIk-  l)i- 


THE  IXX 

gaii  to  asseverate  that  she  wanted  nothing  more, 
except  to  die;  hut  Kirillox  na.  heing  a  woman  of 
hrains,  immediately  stopped  her  and  advised  her 
to  set  ahouL  transferring  her  things  that  very  (hiy, 
without  useless  waste  of  time,  to  Akim's  former 
cottage  in  the  village,  where  dwelt  his  uncle,  that 
same  old  man  who  had  tried  to  dissuade  him  from 
marrying;  she  announced  that,  with  the  mistress's 
permission,  they  would  he  furnished  with  trans- 
portation, and  the  aid  of  peo[)le  and  horses;  ""  and 
as  for  you,  my  dearest,"  —  added  Kirillovna,  com- 
pressing her  cat-like  lips  in  a  sour  smile,  — "  there 
will  always  he  a  })lace  foi-  you  in  our  house,  and  it 
will  he  very  a^reeahle  to  us  if  vou  will  be  our 
guest  until  you  recover  yourself  and  get  settled  in 
your  house.  The  principal  thing  is — you  must 
not  get  downcast.  Tlie  Loi'd  gave,  the  Lord  has 
taken  away,  and  He  will  give  again:  everything 
depends  on  His  will.  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna,  of 
course,  was  obliged  to  sell  your  house,  according 
to  her  calculations,  but  she  will  not  forget  you, 
and  will  reward  vou ;  she  bade  me  sav  so  to  Akim 
Semyonitcli.   .   .  Where  is  he  now?" 

Avdotya  replied  that,  on  meeting  her,  he  had 
grossly  insulted  her,  and  liad  driven  off  to  Chan- 
ter Efrem's. 

"To  that  creature's!  "  —  re])lied  Kirillovna, 
significantly.  —  "  Well,  I  understand  that  it  is 
painful  for  him  now,  and  1  don't  believe  you  can 

312 


THE   INN 

hunt  him  up  to-day.  What  is  to  he  done?  Wv 
must  take  measures,  Mahislika,"  — she  added, 
turning  to  one  of  tlie  chamhermaids.  "  Just  ask 
Xikanor  Ihteh  to  step  liere;  I  will  have  a  talk 
with  him," 

Nikanor  Ihtch,  a  man  of  very  paltry  appear- 
ance, who  served  somewliat  in  the  ca])acity  of 
overseer,  immediately  presented  himself,  ohsecjui- 
ouslv  listened  to  evervthin"-  whieh  Kirillovna  said 
to  him,  — remarked:  "  It  shall  he  executed,"  left 
the  room  and  issued  his  orders.  Avdotya  was  fur- 
nished ^vith  three  carts  and  tliree  peasants;  these 
W'ere  voluntarily  joined  by  a  fourth,  who  said  of 
himself  that  he  would  be  "  more  intelligent  than 
they,"  and  she  set  off  in  company  with  them  for 
the  inn,  where  she  found  her  former  hired  men 
and  her  maid-servant,  Fetinya,  in  great  terror 
and  excitement.  .  .  . 

Xaum's  recruits,  three  extremely  robust  young 
fellows,  had  arrived  in  the  morning,  and  had  gone 
nowhere  since,  but  had  maintained  a  very  zealous 
guard  over  the  inn,  according  to  Xaum's  ])r()mise 
—  so  zealous,  that  one  cart  speedily  proved  to  be 
devoid  of  tires.  .  . 

Bitter,  very  bitter  was  it  for  poor  Avdotya  to 
pack  up  her  things.  Despite  the  assistance  of  the 
"  intelligent  "  man,  who,  by  the  way.  knew  how  to 
do  nothing  hut  stalk  about  with  a  stafV  in  his 
hand,  and  watch  the  others,  and  spit  to  one  side, 

313 


THE   IXX 

she  (lid  not  succeed  in  niovinir  out  tliat  day,  and 
remained  to  spend  tlie  nit>ht  in  the  inn,  having 
first  requested  Fetinya  not  t(^  leave  her  room; 
but  it  was  not  initil  daybreak  that  she  fell  into  a 
feverish  doze,  and  the  tears  streamed  down  her 
cheeks  even  in  her  sleep. 

In  the  meantime,  Efrem  awoke  earlier  than 
-was  his  wont  in  his  lumber-room,  and  began  to 
thump  and  demand  his  release.  At  first  his  wife 
would  not  let  him  out,  declaring  to  him  through 
the  door  that  he  had  not  yet  had  enough  sleep; 
but  he  excited  her  curiosity  by  promising  to  tell 
her  about  the  remarkable  thing  which  had  hap- 
pened to  Akim;  she  undid  the  latch.  — Efrem  im- 
parted to  her  e\'erything  he  knew,  and  wound  up 
with  the  question:  "  AVas  he  awake  or  not?  " 

"Why,  the  Lord  knows,"  —  replied  his  wife; 
—  "go  and  see  for  thyself;  he  has  not  climbed 
down  from  the  oven  yet.  —  You  both  got  pretty 
drunk  last  night;  thou  shouldst  just  see  thyself 
— thy  face  has  no  semblance  of  a  face;  't  is  like 
some  sort  of  ladle ;  and  what  a  lot  of  hay  has  got 
into  thy  hair!  " 

"  Never  mind  if  it  has,"  — returned  Efrem,— 
and  passing  his  hand  over  his  head,  he  entered  the 
house.  —  Akim  was  no  longer  asleep;  he  was  sit- 
ting on  the  oven  with  his  legs  dangling;  his  face 
also  was  very  strange  and  discomposed.  It  ap- 
peared all  the  more  distorted  because  Akim  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  drinking  heavily. 

314 


THE   INN 

"  A\\'ll,  liow  iK)w,  iVkim  Semyonitcli,  how  have 
you  slept!*"  —  began  Efreiii.   .   .   . 

Akini  looked  at  him  with  a  tiirhid  gaze. 

"  Come,  brother  Kfrem,"  —  he  said  hoarsely, — 
"  ean't  we  do  it  again — thou  knowest  what!*  " 

Efrem  darted  a  swift  glanee  at  Akini  ....  at 
that  moment  he  felt  a  sort  of  thrill;  that  is  the 
kind  of  sensation  a  sportsman  experiences  when 
standing  on  the  skirt  of  the  woods,  at  the  sudden 
yelping  of  his  hound  in  the  forest,  from  whieh,  aj)- 
parently,  all  the  wild  beasts  have  already  fled. 

"  What  — more?" — he  asked  at  last. 
Yes;  more." 

"  ]My  wife  will  see,"  —  thought  Efrem,  —  "and 
I  don't  believe  she  will  allow  it."  —  "  AW  right, 
it  can  be  done,"— he  said  aloud;  — "have  ])a- 
tience." — He  went  out  and,  tlianks  to  arti'ully 
conceived  measures,  succeeded  in  smuggling  in 
a  huge  bottle  unperceived  beneath  the  skirt  of  his 
coat.  ... 

Akini  seized  the  bottle  .  .  .  But  Kfrem  did  not 
start  to  drink  with  him  as  on  the  preceding  even- 
ing—  he  was  afraid  of  his  wife,  and,  — having  tohl 
Akim  that  he  would  go  and  see  how  tilings  were 
progressing  at  his  house,  and  how  his  belongings 
were  being  packed,  and  whether  he  were  not  being 
robbed, — he  immediatelvset  off  for  the  inn  astride 
of  his  unfed  little  nag,  — not  forgetting  himself, 
however,  if  we  may  take  into  consideration  his 
projecting  bosom. 

315 


THE   INN 

Soon    after   his   departure,   Akini    fell   asleep 
again,  and  lay  like  one  dead  on  the  oven.   .  .  .  He 
did  not  even  wake  up  — at  all  events,  he  showed 
no  signs  of  being  awake— when  Efrem,  returning 
four  hours  later,  began  to  shove  him  and  try  to 
rouse  him,  and  whisper  over  him  some  extremely 
indistinct  words  to  the  effect  that  everything  was 
gone  and  transported  and  the  holy  pictures  were 
gone  too,  and  ever}i:hing  was  already-  over— and 
that  every  one  was  hunting  for  him,  but  that  he, 
Efrem,  had  taken  due  measures,  and  had  pro- 
hibited .  .  .  and  so  forth.    But  he  did  not  whis- 
per long.     His  wife  led  him  off  to  the  lumber- 
room  again,  and  herself  lay  down  in  the  house, 
on  the  platform  over  the  oven,  in  great  indigna- 
tion at  her  husband  and  at  the  guest,  thanks  to 
whom   her    husband    had    got    drunk.   .   .   .  But 
when,  on  awakening  very  early,  according  to  her 
wont,  she  cast  a  glance  at  the  oven,  Akim  was 
no   longer   on    it.  .   .  .  The   cocks   had   not   yet 
crowed  for  the  second  time,  and  the  night  was 
still  so  dark  that  the  sky  was  barely  turning  grey 
directly  overhead,  and  at  the  rim  was  still  com- 
])letely  drowned  in  vapom-,  when  Akim  emerged 
from  the  gate  of  the  clianter's  house.     His  face 
was  pale,  but  he  diirted  a  keen  glance  around 
him,  and  his  gait  did  not  betray  the  drunkard. 
.  .  .  He  walked  in  the  direction  of  his  former 
dwelling— tlie  inn,  which  liad  already  definitively 
become  the  property  of  its  new  owner,  Naiim. 

31G 


i 


TIIK   TX\ 

Xai'mi  was  tiol  sK'cpijio- uillK-i-,  al  llu-  liiiu'  wlic.i 
iVkiin  stealthily  (jiiittcd  Ki'rcnr.s  liousc.  He  was 
not  asleej);  lie  was  lyiii*^  coni])lctcly  dressed  on  the 
wall-bench,  with  his  sheei)skin  eoat  rolled  u]) 
under  his  head.  It  was  not  that  his  conscience 
was  tormenting  him — no!  he  had  been  present 
with  astounding  cold-bloodedness,  from  the 
morning  on,  at  the  packing  and  transportation  of 
Akim's  household  goods,  and  had  more  than  onee 
spoken  to  Avdotya,  who  was  downcast  to  sucli  a 
degree  that  she  did  not  even  upbraid  him.  .  .  . 
His  conscience  was  at  ease,  but  divers  surmises 
and  calculations  occupied  his  mind.  He  did  not 
know  whether  he  was  going  to  make  a  success  oi' 
his  new  career;  u[)  to  that  time,  he  had  never  ke])t 
an  inn  —  and,  generally  s])eaking,  had  never  even 
had  a  nook  of  his  own;  and  so  he  could  not  get  to 
sleep.  — "  This  little  affair  has  been  begun  well," 
— he  thought;  — "  what  will  the  future  be?  "  .  .  . 
AVhen  the  last  cart-load  of  Akim's  effects  had  set 
off  just  before  night-fall  (Avdotya  had  followed 
it  weeping),  he  had  inspected  the  entire  inn.  all 
the  stables,  cellars,  and  barns;  he  had  crawled  u[) 
into  the  attic,  had  repeatedly  ordered  his  labourers 
to  maintain  a  strict  watch,  and.  when  he  was  left 
alone  after  suj)per,  he  had  not  been  able  to  get 
to  sleep.  It  so  happened  that  on  that  day  none 
of  the  travellers  stopped  to  pass  the  niglit:  and 
this  pleased  him  greatly.  "  I  must  buy  a  dog 
without     fail     to-morrow,  — the     worst-tempered 

317 


THE   IXX 

(log  I  can  get,  from  the  miller;  for  tlie^'  have 
carried  off"  tlieirs,"  — lie  said  to  himself,  as  he 
tossed  from  side  to  side,  and,  all  of  a  sudden,  he 
raised  his  head  hastily.  ...  It  seemed  to  him 
as  though  some  one  had  stolen  past  under  the 
window.  .  .  He  listened.  .  .  Not  a  sound.  Oidy 
a  grasshopper  shrilled  hehind  the  oven,  from 
time  to  time,  and  a  mouse  was  gnawing  some- 
^\  here,  and  his  own  hreath  was  audible.  All  was 
still  in  the  empty  room,  dindy  illuminated  by  the 
yellow  rays  of  a  tiny  glass  shrine-lamp,  which  he 
had  found  time  to  suspend  and  light  in  front  of  a 
small  holy  picture  in  the  corner.  .  .  He  lowered 
his  head;  and  now  again  he  seemed  to  hear  the 
gate  squeaking  ....  then  the  wattled  hedge 
crackled  faintly.  .  .  .  Pie  could  not  endure  it, 
leaped  to  his  feet,  opened  the  door  into  the  next 
room,  and  called  in  a  low  tone:  "  Feodor,  hey, 
Feodor!  "—No  one  answered  him.  .  .  .  He  went 
out  into  the  anteroom  and  nearly  fell  prone,  as 
he  stumbled  over  Feodor,  who  was  sprawling  on 
the  floor.  The  labourer  stirred,  growling  in  his 
sleep;  he  shook  him. 

"  Who  's  there?  What  's  wanted?  "—Feodor 
was  beginning.  .  .  . 

"What  art  thou  yelling  for?  Hold  thy 
tongue!  "  —  articulated  Naiim  in  a  whisper. — 
"  The  idea  of  your  sleeping,  you  damned  brutes' 
Hast  thou  not  heard  anything?  " 

"  No,"-replied  the  man.   .  .  .  "Why?" 

318 


rill',  INN 

"  And  where  arc  the  others  sleeping?  " 

"  The  others  ai"e  sleeping  wliere  they  were 
ordered  to.  .  .  .  Hut  lias  anything  happened i*  .  .  ." 

"  Silence!— Follow  nie." 

Xanni  softly  o])e!)ed  the  door  leading  from  the 
anteroom  into  the  yard.  .  .  .  ( )i!t  of  doors  every- 
thing was  very  dark  :  .  .  .  it  was  possihle  to  make 
out  the  sheds  with  their  pillars  only  hecause  they 
stood  out  still  more  densely  l)laek  in  the  midst  of 
the  hlack  mist.   ... 

''  Sha'n't  T  light  a  lantern?  "said  Feodor  in 
a  low  voice. 

But  Nanm  waved  his  hand  and  held  his  hreath. 
.  .  .  At  first  he  could  hear  nothing  except  tho.se 
nocturnal  sounds  which  one  can  almost  always 
hear  in  inhahited  ])laccs:  a  horse  was  munching 
oats,  a  pig  grunted  once  faintly  in  its  sleep,  a 
man  was  snoring  somewhere;  but  suddeidv  there 
reached  his  ear  a  suspicions  sort  of  noise,  ])roceed- 
ing  from  the  extreme  end  of  the  yard,  close  to  the 
fence.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  as  though  some  one  was  moving 
about,  and  breathing  or  blowing.  .  .  .  Xaum 
looked  over  Feddor's  shoulder,  and,  cautiously 
descending  the  steps,  walked  In  the  direction  of 
the  sound.  ...  A  couple  of  times  he  Jialted,  and 
listened,  then  continued  to  crec])  stealthily  on- 
ward. .  .  .  Suddenly  he  gave  a  start.  .  .  .  Ten 
paces  from  him,  in  the  dense  gloom,  a  |)oint  of 
light  suddenly  glimmered  brightly:  it  was  a  red 

319 


TIIK    I\X 

liol  coal,  and  beside  the  coal  there  showed  itself 
for  a  brief  instant  the  front  part  of  some  one's 
face,  with  lips  puffed  out.  .  .  .  Swiftly  and  si- 
lently \auni  darted  at  the  light,  as  a  cat  darts  at 
a  mouse.  .  .  .  Hastily  rising-  from  the  ground, 
a  long-  body  rushed  to  meet  him.  and  almost 
knocked  him  from  his  feet,  almost  sli])ped  thi'ough 
his  hands,  but  he  clung  to  it  with  all  his  might.  .  .  . 

"  Feodor!  ^Vndrei!  Petrushka!  "  —  he  shouted, 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs;  —  "  come  here  quick,  quick ! 
I  've  caught  a  thiei",  an  incendiary!  " 

The  man  whom  he  had  captured  struggled 
and  resisted  ....  but  Xaiim  did  not  release 
him.  .  .  .  Feodor  immediately  darted  to  his  as- 
sistance. 

"  A  lantern,  quick,  a  lantern!  Kun  for  a  lan- 
tern! wake  the  others,  be  (juick!  "  —  Xaum  shouted 
to  him,  — "  and  I  '11  manage  him  alone  meanwhile 
—  I  '11  sit  on  him.  .  .  J3e  quick!  and  fetch  a  belt 
to  bind  him  with !  " 

Feodor  flew  to  the  cottage.  .  .  .  The  man  whom 
Xaum  was  holding  suddenly  ceased  his  resist- 
ance. .  .  . 

"  So,  evidently,  't  is  no'  enough  for  thee  to 
have  taken  mv  wife  and  mv  monev,  and  mv  house, 
but  thou  art  bent  on  destroying  me  also,"  — he 
said  in  a  dull  tone.   .  .  . 

X'aum  recognised  Akim's  voice. 

"  So  't  is  thou,  dear  little  dove,"  — said  he;  — 

good,  just  wait  a  bit!  " 

320 


riiK  ixx 

"  Let  me  go,"  — said  Akiiii.  — "  xVit  not  tlioii 
satisfied^  " 

"  See  here,  to-inorrow  I  11  show  you  in  the 
preseiiee  of  the  judge  how  satisfied  I  am.  .  .  ." 
And  Xaum  tigliteiied  his  liohl  on  Akim.   .   .   . 

Tlie  hihoin-ers  ran  up  witli  two  hmterns  and 
some  ropes.  .  .  .  "  liind  liim!  '  —  ordered  Xaum, 
sharply.  .  .  .  The  hibourers  seized  Akim,  hf'ted 
him  up,  and  hound  his  luuuls  hehind  him.  .  .  . 
One  of  them  \\as  beginning  to  swear,  but  on 
reeognising  the  former  hnidlord  of  the  inn,  he 
held  his  peace,  and  merely  exclianged  glances 
with  the  others. 

"  Just  see  there,  see  there,  now,"  —  X^aum  kept 
repeating  the  while,  as  he  passed  the  lantei'n  along 
the  ground;  — "  yonder,  there  are  coals  in  a  ]K)t; 
just  look,  he  has  brought  a  wliole  firebrand  in 
the  pot  — we  must  find  out  wliere  he  got  that 
pot  .  .  .  and  here,  he  has  broken  twigs.  .  .  ."' 
And  Xaum  assiduously  stamped  out  the  fire  with 
his  foot.  —  "Search  him,  T'eodor!  "— he  added, 
"  and  see  whether  he  has  anvthin<>'  more  about 
him." 

Feodor  searched  and  felt  Akim,  who  stood 
motionless  with  his  head  droo})ing  on  his  breast, 
like  a  dead  man.  —  "  There  is— iiere  \  a  knife,"  — 
said  Fecklor,  drawing  an  old  kitchen-knife  from 
Akim's  breast. 

"  Khe,  my  dear  fellow,  so  that  \  \\hat  thou 
hadst  in  mind!"  —  exclaimed  Xai'mi,      "  \'()u  ;iie 

3-Jl 


THE   IXX 

witnesses,  my  lads — see  there,  lie  intended  to  cut 
my  throat,  to  bui-n  up  my  house.  .  .  .  Lock  him 
up  in  the  cellar  until  morning;  he  can't  get  out 
of  there.  ...  1  will  stand  watch  all  night  myself, 
and  to-morrow  at  dawn  we  will  take  him  to  the 
chief  of  police  ....  and  you  are  witnesses,  do 
you  hear.   .  .  ." 

They  thrust  Akfm  into  the  cellar,  and  slammed 
the  door  behind  him.  .  .  .  Naiim  stationed  two 
of  the  labourers  there,  and  did  not  lie  down  to 
sleep  himself. 

In  the  meantime,  Efrem's  wdfe,  having  con- 
vinced herself  that  her  unbidden  guest  had  taken 
himself  off,  was  on  the  point  of  beginning  her 
cooking,  although  it  was  hardly  daylight  out  of 
doors  as  yet.  She  squatted  down  by  the  oven  to 
get  some  coals,  and  saw  that  some  one  had  already 
raked  out  the  live  embers  thence;  then  she  be- 
thought herself  of  her  knife — and  did  not  find 
it;  in  conclusion,  one  of  her  four  pots  Mas  miss- 
ing. Efrem's  wife  bore  the  re])utation  of  being 
anything  but  a  stupid  woman — and  witli  good 
reason.  She  stood  i'or  a  \v\\'\\v  in  lliought,  then 
went  to  tlie  lumber-room  to  lier  liusband.  It  was 
not  easy  to  arouse  liim  fully  —  and  still  more  diffi- 
cult was  it  to  make  him  understand  why  he  had 
been  awakened.  .  .  To  everything  which  his  wife 
said.  Chanter  Efrem  made  one  and  the  same 
re])ly : 

"  lie   's   gone,  — \\ ell,    (iod    be    with    him  .   .  . 

322 


riiK  i\\ 

hut  what  business  is  liiat  ol'  luiiic:'  lie  lias  carried 
oil'  a  knife  and  a  pot — well,  God  he  w  itli  him — 
hut  what  l)usiness  is  that  of  mine:'" 

Hut.  al  last,  he  rose,  and  aftei-  listening-  in- 
tently to  his  wife.  h(  (Ucided  that  it  was  a  had 
l)usiness,  and  ti)al  it  could  not  he  Icl't  as  it  now- 
stood. 

"  ^'es,"  — the  chanter's  wife  insisted,  —  "  't  is  a 
had  business :  I  do  l)elieve  he  '11  do  mischief  out 
of  desperation.  ...  1  noticed  last  night  that  he 
was  not  asleep  as  he  lay  there  on  the  oven;  it 
would  n't  he  a  had  idea  I'oi*  thee,  Kfrem  Alexan- 
dritch,  to  find  out  whether   .   .   .   ." 

"  See  hei-e,  I'lyana  Feodorovna,  T  '11  tell  thee 
what,"—  hegan  Kfrem:  — "  I  "11  go  to  the  inn 
myself  immediately:  and  do  thou  be  kind,  dear 
little  mother;  give  me  a  little  glass  of  liquor  to 
cure  me  of  my  drunkenness." 

Ulyana  reflected. 

'•  \Vell,"-she  decided  at  last,-"  I  '11  give  thee 
some  licjuor,  Efrem  Alexandriteh ;  ordy  look  out, 
don't  dally." 

He  at  ease,  Ulyana  Feodorovna." 

i\n(l.  having  fortified  himself  with  a  glass  of 
li(|uor,  Kfrem  set  out  foi-  the  iiu). 

Day  had  hut  just  dawned  when  he  rode  up  to 
the  inn,  and  at  the  gate  a  cart  was  already  stand- 
ing harnes.sed,  and  one  of  Xaum's  labourers  was 
sitting  on  the  driver's  seat,  holding  the  reins  in  his 
hands. 

323 


riiK  ixx 


"Whither  art  thou  ^oingJ' "  — Efrein  asked 
him. 

'■  To  town," — rej)lie(l  tlie  hihourer. 

"  Whyr' 

The  hihourer  merely  sluMi(j'«>e(l  liis  shouldei's 
and  made  no  ie[)ly.  Ki'rem  spi-aii*^'  i'rom  iiis 
horse  and  entered  tiie  house.  In  the  anteroom 
he  ran  across  Xaum,  fully  dressed,  and  wearing 
a  ea]). 

"  I  congratulate  the  new  landlord  on  his  new 
domicile," — said  Efrem,  who  was  personally  ae- 
quamted  with  him.  — "  Whither  away  so  early?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  cause  for  congratulation,"  — 
replied  Xaum,  surlily.  —  "  This  is  my  first  day, 
and  I  have  almost  heen  hurnt  out." 

Eifrem  started.  —  "  How  so^  " 

"  Why,  just  that;  a  kind  man  turned  up,  who 
tried  to  set  the  house  on  tire.  Luckily,  I  cauglit 
him  in  the  act:  now  I  'm  taking  him  to  town." 

"It  can't  be  Akim,  can  it:*"'  .  .  .  .  asked 
Efrem,  slowly. 

"And  how  dost  tiiou  know?  It  is  iVkim. 
ITe  came  by  night,  with  a  firebrand  in  a  ])ot,  and 
liad  already  erej)t  into  the  yard,  and  laid  a  fire 
.  .  .  .  All  my  lads  are  witnesses.  —  Wouldst  like 
to  take  a  look?  l^ut,  by  the  way.  't  is  high  time 
we  were  carrying  him  off*." 

"Deal-  little  father,  Xaiim  I vanitch,"— began 
Efrem,  — "  release  him:  clorTt  uttei-ly  ruin  the  old 
man.     Don't  take  that  sin  on  your  soul,  Xaum 


TIIK    I\X 

I\i'mitc-li.  .Iijsl  rcncct,  tlic  man  is  (k.spcrutt', — 
he  has  lost,  you  know  .   .   .   ." 

"Stop  tliat  prating!  "  —  Xaiini  interrupted 
him.  — "  The  idea!  i\s  though  I  would  let  him 
go!  Why,  he  would  set  me  on  tire  again  to- 
morrow.  .   .   .  " 

"'  lie  will  not  do  it,  \aum  Ivaniteh,  helieve 
me.  Believe  me,  you  yourself  will  he  more  at 
ease  so— for,  you  see,  there  will  he  incjuiries  — the 
eourt — you  sui"ely  know  what  I  mean.  ' 

"  ^Vell,  and  what  ahout  the  court?  I  have  no- 
thing to  fear  from  the  eourt.  .  .  ." 

"  Dear  little  father,  Xaum  Ivaniteh,  how  can 
you  help  fearing  the  court?  .  .  ." 

"  Kh,  stop  that:  1  see  that  thou  art  drunk  early, 
and  to-day  is  a  i'east-day,  to  hoot." 

Efrem  suddenh',  and  (juite  unexj)eete(lly,  fell 
to  weej)ing. 

"  I  am  drunk,  hut  I  'm  speaking  the  truth,"  — 
he  hlurted  out.  — ''  But  do  you  release  him,  in 
honour  ol'  Christ's  festival." 

"  Come,  let  's  he  starting,  ery-l)al)y." 

And  Xaiim  went  out  on  the  j^oreh.  .  .  . 

"  Forgi\e  him  for  Avdotya  Arefyevna's  sake," 
—  said  Kfrem.  following  him. 

Xaum  api^HKiehed  the  cellar,  and  threw  th<.' 
door  w  i(K'  ()|)en.  Efi-em.  with  timoi-ous  curiosity, 
crani'd  his  neck  from  hrhind  Xaum's  hack,  and 
will)  (illlii-nlty  niadr  out  Akini  in  oiir  coiiu  r  of 
the  shallow    cellar.      The   foi-mer  wealthy   house- 

32.5 


THE   IX X 

lioldcr,  tlie  man  respected  in  all  tlie  countryside, 
was  sitting-  with  pinioned  arms  on  the  straw,  like 
a  criminal.  .  .  On  liearing  the  noise,  he  raised  his 
head.  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  liave  grown  f riglit fully 
thin  in  the  last  two  days,  especially  during  the 
last  night  — his  sunken  eyes  wci-e  hardly  visible  be- 
neath his  lofty  broAv,  yellow  as  wax.  his  ])arched 
lips  had  turned  dark  .  .  .  his  whole  face  had 
imdergone  a  change,  and  assumed  a  strange  ex- 
pression: both  harsh  and  terrified. 

"  Get  up  and  come  out," — said  Xaiim. 

Akim  rose,  and  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

"  Akim  Semyonitch,"  — roared  Efrem.  — "  thou 
hast  ruined  thvself,  mv  dear  man!  " 

Akim  glanced  at  him  in  silence. 

"  If  I  had  known  why  thou  didst  ask  for  liquor, 
I  would  n't  have  given  it  to  thee;  indeed,  I 
would  n't!  I  do  believe  I  would  have  drunk  it  all 
myself!  Ekh,  X'^aum  Ivanitch,"  —  added  Kfrem, 
seizing  Xaum  by  the  hand:  —  "have  mercy  on 
him,  let  him  go!  " 

"  Thou  rt  joking,"  —  I'etorted  X'^aiim.  with  a 
grin.  —  "  Come  out,  there,"  —  he  added,  again  ad- 
dressing Aki'm.  .  .  "  AMiat  .irt  ihou  waiting 
for?  " 

"  Xaiim   I\anoff,"   ....   began  iVkim. 

"What?" 

"  Xaiim  I \annff',''  -repeated  iVkim;  —  "  listen; 
I  am  guilty:  I  wanted  to  punish  thee  myself;  but" 
God  must  judge  between   thou  and  me.     Thou 


I'lIK    l\\ 

hast  taken  everytliino-  from  mc,  Ihou  knowest  that 
thvsell' — c\  crvlhiim",  to  the  verv  hisl  niorscl.— 
Now  thou  canst  ruin  inc,  and  this  is  all  I  liavc  to 
say  Id  tlur:  If  thou  ^\ilt  release  nie  now  — well! 
let  things  stand!  do  thou  j)<)ssess  everything!  I 
atiree.  and  wish  thei'  all  sueeess.  And  I  sa\'  to 
tlu'e,  as  in  llic  ])resenec  ol'  (Jod:  11'  thou  dost  I'e- 
lease  me  thou  slialt  not  I'e^ret  it.  (iod  hless 
thee!" 

.Vkini  shut  his  eyes,  and  ceased  speaking. 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  —  retorted  Xaunr,  —  "as 
though  one  could  trust  thee!  " 

"  But  thou  canst,  hv  God,  thou  canst!"  —  said 
Kfrem;  "  really,  thou  canst.  I  'ni  ready  to  go 
hail  for  Akini  Seniyonitch  with  my  head  —  come 
now,  really!  " 

"  Nonsense!  "  —  exclaimed  Nai'im.  — "  Let  's  ])e 
off!" 

Akim  looked  at  him. 

"  As  thou  wilt,  Naum  Ivanitch.  Thou  hast 
the  ])ower.  Only,  thou  art  taking  a  great  deal  on 
thy  soul.  All  right,  if  thou  art  impatient,  —  let  us 
start.   .   .   ." 

Xaum,  in  his  turn,  darted  a  keen  glance  at 
Akim.  "  l^ut  it  leally  would  he  hetter,"  —  he 
thought  to  himself.  "  to  let  h.ini  go  to  the  devil! 
Otherwise,  folks  will  devour  me  alive.  There-  11 
be  no  living  for  Avdotya."  ....  AVhile  Naum 
was  reasoning  with  himself  no  on<'  uttered  a  sin- 
gle word.   The  lahoincr  on  tlu-  cart,  who  could  see 

327 


TTTK   TXX 

evcrvtlHn*^'  throii^li  the  gate,  merely  shook  his 
head  and  slapj)ed  the  leiits  on  the  horse's  back. 
The  other  two  labourers  stood  on  the  ])orch  and 
also  maintained  silence. 

"  Come,  listen  to  me,  old  man," — began  Xaum; 
— "  if  I  let  thee  go,  —  and  I  forbid  these  fine  fel- 
lows "  (he  nodded  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
labourers)  "  to  blab;  shall  we  be  quits,  tliou  and  I 
—  thou  understandest  me — quits  ....  hey?  " 

"  Possess  everything,  I  say." 

"  Thou  wilt  not  consider  me  in  thy  debt?  " 

"  Thou  wilt  not  be  in  debt  to  me,  neither  shall  I 
be  in  debt  to  thee."  Again  Xaum  was  silent  for  a 
s])ace. 

"  Well,  take  thy  oath  on  that!  " 

"  I  do,  as  God  is  holy,"  —  replied  Akim. 

"  Here  goes  then,  although  I  know  before- 
hand that  I  shall  repent  of  it," — remarked  Naum. 
— "  T5ut  so  be  it!    Give  me  your  hands." 

Akim  turned  his  back  toward  him;  Xaum  be- 
gan to  unbind  him. 

"  Look  out,  old  man,"— he  added,  as  he  slipped 
the  rope  over  his  wrists:  —  "remember,  I  have 
si)ared  thee;  be  careful!  " 

You  're  a  dear,  X^aum  I vanitch,"  — stam- 
mered the  deeply-moved  Efrem.  — "  The  I^ord 
will  be  merciful  to  you!  " 

Akim  stretched  out  his  chilled  and  swollen 
arms,  and  was  starting  for  the  gate.  .  .  . 

All  of  a  sudden   Xaum   "  turned  Jewish,"  as 

328 


riiK  i\\ 

till'  t'xprcijsioii  is  — evidently,  lie  was  sorry  thai  lie 
hail  released  iVkini.   .   .   . 

"  Thou  hast  taken  an  oath,  look  out, "--he 
shouted  alter  liini. 

Akini  turned  round,  and  sui\evinii"  the  house 
with  an  enibraeini*-  <ilaiiee,  said  sadly:  — ''  Possess 
thou  exerythin^',  foi'ivcr,  undisturbed  .  .  .  . 
farewell.  " 

And  he  stejj|)ed  (juietly  into  the  street,  aeconi- 
panied  hy  Ktreiii.  \auni  waved  his  liand,  or- 
dered the  eart  to  he  unharnessed,  and  went  haek 
into  the  house. 

"Whither  away,  Aki'ni  Seniyonitch  ;*  Art  not 
thou  eoniing'  to  my  house;*"  —  exelainied  Kl'reiii. 
—  perceivin<>'  that  iVki'm  tui'ned  to  the  ri<^ht  from 
the  highway. 

"  No,  Efremushka,  thanks,"  — rephed  Akim. 
.   .   .    '■  I  w  ill  i>()  and  see  what  my  wife  is  doing." 

"  Thou  eanst  see  later  on.  .  .  .  l^ut  now  thou 
must  for  joy   .    .    thou  knowest   ...."" 

\o,  thanks,  Kfrem.  ...  1  've  had  enough 
as  it  is.  Fai'ewell."  —  And  .Vkim  walked  ax\  ay 
without  looking  hehind  him. 

Kkal  He  has  had  enough  as  it  is  I  "  —  ejaeu- 
lated  the  astounded  ehanter:  '  and  I  have  takei^ 
my  oath  on  his  hehalt'!  AN'ell,  1  did  n't  expect 
this."  he  added  with  xexation,  —  "alter  I  had 
Nouehed  for  him.     IMieu  I  " 

lie  I'ememhered  that  he  had  forgotten  to  take 
his  knifi'  and  pot,  and  leturiieil  to  the  inn.   .   .   . 


THE   INN 

Naum  gave  orders  that  liis  things  should  he  de- 
livered to  him,  hut  it  never  entered  his  head  to 
entertain  him.  Thorou"hlv  enraged  and  com- 
pletely  soher  he  presented  himself  at  home. 

"Well,  what?" — his  wife  asked  him; — "didst 
thou  find  him?  " 

"  Did  I  find  him?  "-retorted  Efrem;-"  cer- 
tainly I  found  him;  there  are  thy  utensils  for 
thee." 

"  Akim?  "  —  inquired  his  wife,  with  special  em- 
phasis. 

Efrem  nodded  his  head. 

"  Yes,  Akim.  But  what  a  goose  he  is !  I  went 
bail  for  him;  without  me  he  would  have  been  put 
in  prison,  and  he  ne^er  even  treated  me  to  a 
glass  of  liquor.  Ulyana  Feodorovna,  do  you,  at 
least,  show  me  consideration;  give  me  just  one 
little  glass." 

But  Ulyana  Feodorovna  showed  him  no  con- 
sideration and  drove  him  out  of  her  sight. 

In  the  meantime,  Akim  was  proceeding  with 
quiet  strides  along  the  road  which  led  to  I^izaveta 
Prokhorovna's  village.  He  had  not  yet  been 
able  fully  to  recover  himself;  he  was  all  (juivering 
inside,  like  a  man  wlio  has  but  just  escaped  immi- 
nent death.  He  seemed  not  to  believe  in  his  free- 
dom. With  dull  amazement  he  stared  at  the  fields, 
at  the  sky,  at  the  larks  which  were  fluttering  their 
wings  in  the  warm  air.  On  the  previous  day,  at 
Efrem's   liousc,   lie   had    not   slept   at   all   since 

330 


11  IK    I.W 

dinner,  altliougli  Jic  liad  lain  motionless  on  the 
oven;  at  first  he  had  tried  to  drown  witli  li(jnor  the 
intolerahle  pain  of  iii|uiy  within  him,  the  an- 
L>nish  ol'  uratld'nl,  impotent  indignation  .... 
hilt  the  li(jiioi-  eoidd  not  entirely  oxcreome  him; 
his  Iieart  Avaxed  hot  within  him,  and  he  hegan 
to  meditate  how  he  mi«*ht  pay  ott'  his  malefaetor. 
.  .  .  lie  thonglit  of  Xanm  alone;  Li/aveta  Pro- 
khorovna  did  not  enter  his  head,  and  from  Avdo- 
tvu  he  mentally  tnrned  awav.  'i'oward  evenini*', 
the  thirst  for  revenge  had  hia/ed  nj)  in  him  to 
the  ])oint  of  erime,  and  he,  the  good-natnred,  weak 
man,  with  feverish  im])atienee  waited  for  the 
night,  and  like  a  wolf  j)onneing  on  its  |)rey,  he 
I'nshed  forth  with  fire  in  his  hand  to  annihilate 
his  former  home.  .  .  lint  he  had  heen  captnred 
.  .  .  .  loeked  np.  .  .  .  Night  eame.  \Vhat  had 
not  he  turned  over  in  his  mind  during  that  atro- 
cious night!  It  is  diffieult  to  convey  in  words 
all  tlie  tortures  which  he  had  undergone;  it  is 
all  the  more  diffieult,  l)eeause  these  torments  even 
in  the  man  himself  were  wordless  and  dumh.  .  .  . 
Toward  morning,  hefore  the  arrival  of  Xanm 
and  Kfrem,  Akim  had  felt  somewhat  easier  in 
mind.  .  .  "  Kverything  is  lost!  "  .  .  .  .  he  thought 
.  .  .  .  "  everything  is  seatteit-d  to  the  winds!  "  — 
and  he  waved  his  hand  in  desj)air  over  everything. 
...  If  he  had  heen  horn  with  an  e\  il  soul,  he 
might  havf  turned  into  a  criminal  at  that  mo- 
ment; hut  c\il  was  not  n  characteristic  of  Akim. 


riiK  IX X 

Beneatli  tlie  slu)ck  of  tlu'  unexpected  and  unde- 
served calamity,  in  the  reek  of  despair,  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  a  felonious  deed;  it  had 
shaken  him  to  the  very  foundations,  and,  having 
miscarried,  it  had  left  behind  in  liim  a  profound 
weariness.  .  .  .  Conscious  of  liis  t^uilt.  he 
wrenched  his  lieart  free  from  all  earthly  things, 
and  began  to  pray  bitterly  but  zealously.  At 
first  he  prayed  in  a  whisper,  at  last,  accidentally, 
[)erhaps,  he  ejaculated  almost  aloud:  ''  O  l^ord!  " 
—  and  the  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes.  .  .  .  T^ong 
did  he  weep,  then  calmed  down  at  last.  .  .  .  His 
thoughts  probably  would  have  undergone  a 
change,  had  he  been  forced  to  smart  for  his  at- 
tempt of  the  day  before  .  .  .  l)ut  now  he  had 
suddenly  recovered  his  liberty  .  .  .  and,  half- 
alive,  all  shattered,  but  calm,  he  w  as  on  his  way 
to  an  interview  with  his  w'd'e. 

Lizaveta  Prokhorovna's  manor  stood  a  verst 
and  a  half  distant  i'roni  lier  village,  on  the  left- 
hand  side  of  the  country  road  along  which  Akim 
was  walkiuii".  At  the  turn  which  led  to  the  manor, 
he  was  on  the  point  of  pausing  ....  but  he 
marched  ])ast.  He  hnd  decided  first  to  go  to  his 
former  cottage,  to  his  old  uticle. 

Akfnfs  tiny  and  already  i-ickety  cottage  was 
situated  almost  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  village; 
i\kfni  traversed  the  entire  length  of  the  street 
without  encountering  a  single  soul.  The  whole 
population  was  in  church.     Oidy  one  ailing  old 


I'lIK    INN 

woman  lil'U'd  lier  window  to  ^a/c  after  liiiii,  and 
a  little  ^irl,  who  had  run  out  to  the  well  with  an 
empty  hueket,  gaped  in  wonder  at  him  and  also 
followed  hiiu  a\  ith  hei"  eyes.  The  first  person 
whom  he  met  was  preeisely  the  uncle  whom  he 
was  seeking.  The  old  man  had  heeii  sitting  sinee 
earlv  morninu'  on  the  eai'tiien  hank  outside  the 
cottage  undei'  the  windows,  taking  snuff,  and 
warming  himself  in  the  sun;  he  was  not  (juite 
well,  and  for  that  reason  had  not  gone  to  chuieh; 
he  was  on  his  way  to  see  another  ailing  old  man, 
a  neighhour,  when  he  suddenly  espied  Akim.  .  .  . 
He  sto})pe(l  short,  let  the  latter  eome  u))  to  him, 
and  looking  him  in  the  face,  he  said: 

"  Morning,  iVkimushka!  " 

"  Morning,'"  — re})lied  Akim.  and  stej)})ing 
past  the  old  man,  he  entered  the  gate  to  his  cot- 
tage. ...  In  the  yard  stood  his  horses,  his  cow, 
his  cart;  and  his  chickens  were  roaming  al)out 
there  also.  .  .  .  He  entered  the  cottage  in  si- 
lence. The  old  man  followed  him.  Aki'm  seated 
himself  on  the  hench,  and  rested  his  clenched  fists 
on  it.  The  old  man  gazed  compassionately  at 
him,  fiom  his  stand  at  the  door. 

"And  where  is  my  liousew  ife .'  "  -  in(|uired 
Akim. 

"  Why,  at  the  manor-house,  "  r(|)lied  the  old 
man.  hriskly.  '"  She  is  thei-e.  They  ha\('  placed 
thy  cattle  here,  and  lliy  coflVis.  jusi  as  they  \\ere 
—  hut  she  is  \(iii(i(  r.     Shall   I  go  for  liri-:'  '" 


TIIK    IXX 

Akiiii  did  not  reply  inirncdiateh'. 

"  Yes,  go,"  —  lie  said  at  last. 

"  Ekh,  uncle,  uncle,"  — he  articulated  with  a 
sigh,  while  the  latter  was  taking  his  cap  from  its 
nail:  — "  dost  thou  remember  what  thou  saidst 
to  me  on  the  eve  of  my  wedding?  " 

"  God's  will  rules  all  things,  Akimuslika." 

"  Dost  thou  remember  how  thou  saidst  to  me 
that  I  was  no  fit  mate  for  you  peasants — and 
now  see  what  a  pass  things  have  come  to.  ...  I 
myself  have  become  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse." 

"  A  man  can't  make  calculations  against  bad 
people,"  —  replied  the  old  man;  —  "and  as  for 
him,  the  dishonest  scoundrel,  if  any  one  were  to 
teach  him  a  good  lesson,  some  gentleman,  for 
instance,  or  any  other  power,— what  cause  would 
there  be  to  fear  him?  The  wolf  recognised  his 
prey."  —  And  the  old  man  put  on  his  cap  and 
departed. 

Avdotya  had  but  just  returned  from  church 
when  she  was  informed  that  her  husl)an{rs  uncle 
was  inquiring  for  her.  U])  to  that  time  she  had 
very  rarely  seen  him ;  he  had  not  been  in  the  habit 
of  coming  to  their  inn,  and  in  general  he  bore 
the  reputation  of  being  a  (jueer  fellow:  he  was 
passionately  fond  of  snuff,  and  preserved  silence 
most  of  the  time. 

She  went  out  to  him. 

"  What  dost  thou  want,  Petrovitch:'  lias  any- 
thing hapi)encd,  pray?  " 


riiK  i\\ 

'■  Xotliiiin  lias  liappciicd.  Axdotya  Al•(■fV^'^'na; 
thy  liiisbaiul  is  askiiicr  foj-  thee." 
lias  he  retni'Med  (  " 
1  es. 
"  l?nt  where  is  lie!"  " 

Why,  in   the  \  ilhi<4'e;  he  's  sitting-  in  his  cot- 
tage." 

Avdotya  (jiiailed. 

"  Well,  I'etrovitch,"  — she  asked,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eye,  —  "  is  he  angry?  " 

"  'V  is  not  pereeptihle  that  he  is." 

Avdotya  dropj)e(l  her  eyes. 

"  \Vell,  eome  along,"  — she  said,  throwing  on  a 
large  kerehief,  and  the  two  set  out.  'i'hey  w  alked 
in  silenee  until  thev  reaehed  the  xillaii'C'-  Hut 
when  they  began  to  draw  near  to  the  eottage,  Av- 
dotya was  seized  with  sneh  alarm  that  her  knees 
trembled  under  her. 

"  Dear  little  father,  Petroviteh,"  — she  said,— 
"  do  thou  go  in  first.  .  .  .  Tell  liim  that  I  have 
eome." 

Petroviteli  entei-ed  the  eottage  and  lound  Akiin 
sitting  bui'ied  in  profound  tiioughl.  on  the  self- 
same s|)ot  where  he  liad   k-f't   Iiini. 

"  \\'ell.".  —  said  Akim,  raising  his  Iiead;  — 
"  lias  n't  she  eome^  " 

"  Yes,  she  has  eome.  '      re|)hed  tlie  old  man. — 

She  's  standing  at  the  gate.   .   .   . 
Send  her  liithci.' 

'I'he    old    man    went    out.    waxed    his    liand    lo 


Avdotya,  said  to  her:  "  CxO  along!  "  and  sat  down 
agahi  liiinself  on  the  earthen  hank  along  the  cot- 
tage wall.  With  trepidation  Avdotya  opened 
the  door,  crossed  the  threshold  and  paused.   .   .   . 

Akini  looked  at  her. 

"Well,  Arefyevna,"— he  hegan,  — "  what  are 
we— thou  and  1— to  do  now^  " 

"  Forgive  nie,"  —  she  whispered. 

"  Ekh,  Arefyevna,  we  are  all  sinful  folks. 
W'luit  's  the  use  of  discussing  it!  " 

"  That  villain  has  ruined  hotli  of  us,"— began 
Avdotya  in  a  voice  which  jingled  and  broke,  and 
the  tears  streamed  down  lier  face.  —  "  Thou  must 
not  let  things  stand  as  they  are,  Akim  Semyo- 
nitch;  thou  must  get  the  money  from  him.  Do 
not  spare  me.  I  am  ready  to  declare  under  oath 
that  I  lent  the  money  to  him.  Lizaveta  Prokho- 
rovna  had  a  right  to  sell  our  liouse,  but  why 
should  he  rob  us?  ...  .  Get  the  money  from 
him." 

"  I  have  no  money  to  receive  from  liim,"  — re- 
plied Akim,  gloomily.  —  "  He  and  I  have  settled 
our  accounts." 

Avdotya  was  astounded.  — "  How  so?" 

"  ^Vhy,  because  we  liave.  Knowest  thou,"  — 
pursued  Akim,  and  his  eyes  began  to  blaze: — 
"knowest  thou  where  1  spent  the  nights  Thou 
dost  not  know?  In  Naum's  cellar,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  like  a  ram,  that  's  where  I  spent  lasl 
nighi.      I   tried   to  burn  down   his  house,  and  he 

330 


riiK  ix\ 

cauglil  inc,  did  Xaiiiii;  lie  "s  iiwrully  clever!  iViid 
to-day  he  was  preparin*^-  to  carry  me  to  the  town, 
l)iit  lie  ])ardoned  riic:  consequefitly,  there  is  no 
iiioiiey  ('(lining  to  inc  I'loin  him.  ..."  iVnd  when 
did  1  (MI-  hori'ow  any  money  of  thee^'  he  will 
sav.  iVnd  am  I  to  sa\  :  '  Mv  wife  took  it  ont  fi'om 
under  my  tioor.  and  eai'ried  it  to  thee^  '  -'  Thy 
wife  is  a  liar."  he  \\ill  say.  And  \v()nld  n't  it  he 
a  hio-  ex])osni-e  foi-  thee,  iVrel'yevna  ^  Hold  thy 
tongue,  rathei",  I  tell  thee,  hold  thy  tongue." 

Forgive    me,    Semy(')niteh,    forgive    nie,"  — 
whis])ered  the  thoroughly  frightened  Avd()tya. 

"  That  "s  not  the  ])oint,"  — re])lied  Akini,  after 
remaining  silent  for  a  while:  '  hut  what  are  we 
—  thou  and  I  — to  do:*  W^e  no  longer  have  a  home 
.   .   .   nor  money  either.   .   .   ." 

"  We  '11  get  along  somehow.  .Vkim  Semy()- 
niteh;  —  we  will  ask  Iiizav(^'ta  Pr(')khorovna  and 
she  will  help  us;  Kirdhniia  has  promised  me 
that." 

"  Xo,  Ar(jfvevna.  thou  mavest  ask  her  foi-  thv- 
self  along  with  thy  Kirillovna;  thou  and  she  are 
hirds  of  a  feather.'  Hut  I  "11  tell  thee  what:  do 
thou  stay  here,  with  (iod's  hlessing.  I  .shall  not 
.stay  here.  Luckily,  we  have  no  childi-en.  and 
])erha])s  I  shall  not  stai\e  alone.  One  per.son 
can  worry  along  alone." 

What  wilt  thou  do.  Semyonitch  —  dost  mean 
to  go  as  cai'i'ier  again;*  " 

'  III  Uii^si.'Ui:  "  Hcrrirs  Iroiii  t he  .s.iiiic  field."       Fii  wsi  ktoh. 

337 


TIIK    I  XX 

AkiDi  laughed  bitterly. 

"  A  pretty  earrier  I  wciuld  make,  there  's  no 
denying  that !  A  Hue,  dashing  young  fellow  tliou 
hast  pieked  out!  No,  Arefyevna,  tliat  is  not  the 
same  sort  of  business  as  marrying,  i'or  example; 
an  old  man  is  not  fit  for  it.  Only  I  will  not  re- 
main here,  that  's  what;  1  won't  have  people  ])<)int- 
ing  the  finger  at  me  ....  understand?  I  shall 
go  to  pray  away  my  sins,  Arefyevna,  that  \s  where 
I  shall  go." 

"  What  sins  hast  thou,  Semyonitch?  "  —  articu- 
lated Avdotya,  timidly. 

"  AVell,  wife,  1  know  what  they  are." 

"  But  in  whose  care  wilt  tliou  leave  me,  Semyo- 
nitch i*    How  am  1  to  live  without  a  husband?  " 

"  In  whose  care  shall  I  leave  thee^  Kkh,  Are- 
fyevna, how  thou  sayest  that,  forsooth!  ]Much 
need  hast  thou  of  a  husband  like  me,  and  an  old 
man  and  a  ruined  one  to  boot.  The  idea !  Thou 
has  dispensed  with  me  before,  thou  canst  dispense 
with  me  hereafter  also.  And  what  property  we 
have  left  thou  mavest  take  for  thvself.  curse 
it!  ....  " 

"  As  thou  wilt,  Semyonitch,"  — replied  Avdo- 
tya, sadly;  —  "  thou  knowest  best  about  that." 

"  Kxactly  so.  Only,  don't  thijik  that  1  am 
angry  with  thee,  Arefyevna. 

"  Xo,  what  \s  the  use  of  being  angry,  when 
.  .  .  .  I  ought  to  have  discovered  how  things 
stood  eai'lier  in  the  day.     I  myself  am  to  })lame  — 

388 


11  IK    I.\.\ 

and  1  am  puiii.slK'd.  '  (^Vkim  heaved  a  si^li.)  — 
"  As  you  have  made  your  hed.  so  you  must  lie 
upon  it.'  I  am  achaiieid  in  years,  and  "I  is  time 
for  me  to  l)e  thinkinu'  of  mv  souh  Tlie  Lord  1 1  im- 
self  lias  hiought  me  to  my  senses.  Here  was  i, 
seest  thou,  an  old  fool,  who  wanted  to  live  at 
his  ease  with  a  youno-  wife.  .  .  .  Xo,  hrothei' — 
old  man,  first  do  thou  pray,  and  heat  thy  ])i-ow 
against  the  earth,  and  l)e  ])atient,  and  fast.  .  .  . 
xVnd  now,  go,  my  mother.  I  am  very  tired  and 
I  will  get  a  hit  of  sleep." 

And  Akim  stretched  himself  out,  grunting  on 
the  bench. 

Avdotya  started  to  say  something,  stood  for 
a  while  ga/ing  at  him,  then  tuiMied  and  went 
away.  .  .   . 

"Well,  did  n't  he  thrash  thee?  "  — Petrovitch 
asked  lier.  as  he  sat,  all  hent  douhle.  on  the 
earthen  hank,  when  she  came  alongside  of  him. 
Avdotya  j)assed  him  in  silence.  — "  See  there  now, 
he  did  n't  beat  her,"  — said  the  old  man  to  himself, 
as  he  grinned,  ruffled  up  his  hair,  and  took  a  i)ineh 
of  snuff. 

Akim  carried  out  his  purpose.  lie  s])eedily 
])ut  his  petty  affairs  i!i  order,  and  a  lew  days 
after  the  conversation  which  we  have  ti'anseribed, 
he  went,  already  garbed  for  the  _journey.  to  hid 

'  In  Russian:  "  If  voii  arr  fond  of  ,sl«MKliinK«  *'"■•>  '^<"  f'""'  •'*'•'>" 
of  dr;>;;trin>r  tlio  slcd>r<."  —  Tii  wsr  xTnii. 


THE   IX X 

faresvell  to  his  wife,  Avho  had  settled  for  the  time 
heiiig-  in  a  tiny  wing  of  the  mistress's  manor- 
house.  Their  leave-taking  did  not  last  long.  .  .  . 
Kirlllo^■na,  who  ehaneed  to  he  on  hand,  advised 
Akim  to  present  himself  to  the  mistress;  and  he 
did  so.  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna  received  him  with 
a  certain  amount  of  confusion,  hut  affahly  per- 
mitted him  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  inquired  where 
he  was  intending  to  l)etake  himself:'  He  replied 
that  he  was  going  first  to  Kieff ,  and  thence  where- 
ever  God  should  grant.  She  lauded  his  purpose, 
and  dismissed  him.  From  that  time  forth  he 
rarely  made  his  appearance  at  home,  although 
he  never  forgot  to  hring  his  mistress  a  hlessed 
hread  with  a  particle  taken  out  for  her  health.  .  .  .' 

'  Tiny  double  loaves  of  leavened  bread,  like  those  used  in  preparing' 
the  Holy  Communion,  are  sold  at  the  entrances  to  churehes.  Any 
one  who  wishes  to  have  the  health  of  his  livinjf  or  the  souls  of  his 
dead  friend  prayed  for,  buys  a  loaf,  and  sends  it  to  the  sanctuary 
before  the  beginning  of  the  morninjj  service,  aii-ompanied  by  a  slip 
of  paper,  whereon  is  written:  "For  the  health"  (or  "  I'or  the  soul") 
"of  Ivan  "—or  whatever  the  friend's  baptismal  name  may  !><■.  Tiic 
priest  removes  froi>'  the  loaf  witli  his  spear-shaped  knife  a  tiiangular 
particle,  which  V'i  places  on  the  chalice  (it  is  not  used  in  the  Com- 
munion), and  at  a  certain  point  of  the  service,  all  these  ])crsoiis  are 
prayed  for,  by  name-  th<!  Lord  being  aware  which  of  the  I\ans  or 
Maryas  is  intended.  After  the  service  the  loaf  is  returned  to  the 
owner,  who  carries  it  home,  and  (when  jwssiblc)  gives  it  to  the  jierson 
who  has  been  jjrayed  for.  It  is  the  custom  for  pilgrims  to  tlie  \arious 
shrines  to  bring  back  loaves  of  this  sort  to  their  friends,  and  these  are 
highly  prized.  At  .some  of  the  famous  monasteries,  instead  of  the  cus- 
tomary imprint  of  a  cross  and  the  Greek  letters  meaning  "Jesus  Christ 
the  Conqueror,"  whi<'h  arc  used  on  the  loaves  for  the  Communion, 
a  special  holy  bread  (f)rosfora>  is  prepared  for  this  purpose,  stamped 
with  the  Saint  or  Saints  for  which  the  locality  is  renowned.  In  the 
primitive  church,  the  worshippers  were  wont  to  bring  offerings  of 
bread,  wine,  oil  and  wheat,  for  the  retjuirements  of  the  service.  As 
long  as  the  congregations  were  not  numerous,  all  such  givers  were 

;i40 


TIIK    I.W 

Bui,  on  the  ()tli(.r  liaiid.  in  civ  where  where 
devout  Russians  e()ii«;i-egate,  his  gaunt  and 
aged  hut  still  eoniely  and  sedate  face  was  to  he 
seen:  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Sergius,  iun\  on  tin' 
White  Shores,  and  in  the  Optin  Ilennitage,  and 
in  distant  \'alaani.'  lie  went  everywhere.  .  .  . 
This  yeai'  he  passed  yon  in  the  ranks  of  the  count- 
less throng  which  marched  in  a  procession  of  the 
cross  hehind  the  holy  picture  of  tlie  Birth-giver 
of  Ciod  at  the  Korennaya  Hermitage:  -  next  yeai- 
you  would  find  him  sitting  with  iiis  wallet  on  his 
hack,  along  with  othei"  })ilgrims  on  the  jjorch  of 
St.  Nicholas  the  Wonder-Worker  in  Mtzensk. 
.  .  .  He  made  his  a])pearance  in  ^foscow  nearly 
every  spring. 

From  ])lace  to  place  lie  trudged  with  his  quiet, 
unhurried  hut  unceasing  stride— 't  is  said  that  he 
even  went  to  Jerusalem.  .  .  .  He  ap])eared  to  he 
perfectly  composed  and  ha])])y,  and  many  ])er- 
sons  talked  ahout  his  piety  and  humility,  es])e- 

prayed  for  by  name  When  nicnilH-rs  became  so  numerous  tliat  this 
would  have  been  burdensome,  tlie  custom  was  instituted  of  jjra}  iiifj- 
for  the  Sovereign  and  his  family,  as  representatives  of  all  tlie  rest: 
and  this  last  custom  still  prevails,  mingled  (as  alx)ve  described  >  with 
a  renuiant  of  the  orif^inal  tustom.— Tu  wslaidii. 

^ 'l"hc  shrine  of  St.  Ser^ius  at  the  'rr('>it/.ky  (Trinity)  monastery, 
forty  miles  from  Moscow.  The  Optin  Hermitajfe  in  Tamtxiff  Govern- 
ment. "The  White  Shores"— the  famous  monasteries  of  Solov<5tzk, 
in  the  White  Sea,  and  at  Hyelo-Ozero  (White  I-ake),  south  of  Lake 
Onega.  Val^ra,  an  island  in  Lake  Ladofr.i,  with  another  famous 
raonastery.  —Translator. 

^  The  Korennaya  Hermitage  lies  about  si.\teen  miles  northwest  of 
Kursk,  in  southern  Ru.ssia.  Mtzensk,  neanr  the  centre,  is  half-way 
between  Orel  and   Tiila.  —  Thansi  Aroii. 

341 


THK    I  NX 

cially  those  people  who  had  chanced  to  converse 
with  him. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Xaum's  affairs  throve  ex- 
ceedino^lv.  He  took  hold  hrisklv  and  under- 
standinf^ly.  and.  as  the  saying  is,  went  to  the 
head  fast.  Kveryljody  in  the  neigh hf)ni'lK>od 
knew  by  what  means  he  had  acquired  possession 
of  the  inn,  and  they  knew  also  that  Avdotya  had 
given  him  her  husband's  money;  no  one  liked 
Xaiim  because  of  his  cold  and  harsh  character. 
....  They  narrated  with  condemnation  con- 
cerning him  that  one  day  he  had  replied  to  Akim 
himself,  who  had  begged  alms  under  his  window. 
'  God  will  provide,"  and  had  brought  out  no- 
thing to  him;  but  all  agreed  that  no  more  lucky 
man  than  he  existed:  his  grain  throve  better  than 
his  neighbours'  grain:  his  bees  swarmed  more 
abundantly:  even  his  hens  laid  more  eggs;  his 
cattle  never  fell  ill:  his  horses  never  went  lame. 
....  P'or  a  long  time  Avdotya  could  not  en- 
dure to  hear  his  name  (she  had  accepted  Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna's  offer,  and  had  again  entered  her 
service  in  the  capacit\'  of  head-seamstress)  :  but 
eventually,  her  aversion  diminished  somewhat: 
't  was  said  that  want  forced  her  to  have  recourse 
to  him,  and  he  gave  her  a  hundred  rubles.  .  .  . 
We  shall  not  condemn  her  too  severely;  poverty 
will  break  any  one's  spirit,  and  the  sudden  revolu- 
tion in  her  life  had  aged  and  tamed  her  down 
greatly:  it  is  difficult  to  believe  how  quickly  she 

342 


THK    I\X 

lost  her  ^ood   looks,  liow    she  l4^c^v   clishcai'teiicd 
and  low-spirited.  .  .   . 

''And  how  did  it  ail  (.iid  ;■  "  -the  I'eadei-  will 
ask. 

Thus:  Xai'iin,  after  haviuf^-  eondueted  his  hiisi- 
iiess  successfully  for  fifteen  years,  sold  his  inn 
on  proHtahle  terms  to  a  })etty  hur<''her.  ...  He 
never  would  have  j)arted  with  his  house  if  the 
following  apparently  insignificant  incident  had 
not  occurred:  two  mornings  in  succession  his  dog. 
as  it  sat  in  front  of  the  windows,  howled  in  a  pro- 
longed and  mournful  manner;  on  the  second  oc- 
casion he  went  out  into  the  street,  gazed  atten- 
tively at  the  howling  dog,  shook  his  head,  set 
off  for  the  town,  and  that  very  day  agreed  on  the 
price  with  a  petty  hurgher,  who  had  long  heen 
trying  to  purcha.se  his  inn.  ...  A  week  later  he 
dei)arte(l  for  some  distant  j)lace — out  of  the 
Cxovernment,  —  and  what  think  you!'  that  \'ery 
night  the  inn  was  hurned  to  the  ground:  not  even 
a  kennel  remained  intact,  and  Xaum's  successor 
was  reduced  to  l)eggary.  The  reader  can  easily 
imagine  what  I'umoui's  arose  in  the  neighI)our- 
hood  eoncei'uing  this  eonflagration.  .  .  .  Kvi- 
dently  he  carried  his  "  luck  '  away  with  him,  all 
declared.  ...  It  is  rej)uite(i  tjiat  he  engaged 
in  the  <>iain  i)usi?iess,  and  hecame  verv  wealth\'. 
Hnl  was  it  \'ny  long;'  ( )tiier  e(|ually  firm  pillars 
ha\e  fallen  prone,  and  sooner  or  later  a  had  i\vvi\ 
has  a  had  ending. 

li  Hi 


THE   IX N 

It  is  not  wortli  ^\  hile  to  say  much  about  Liza- 
veta  Prokhorovna:  she  is  alive  to  this  day,  and 
as  often  happens  witli  j)eople  of  that  sort,  she  has 
not  changed  in  the  least;  she  has  not  e\en  aged 
much,  hut  only  seems  to  have  grown  more  lean; 
moreover,  her  ])enuriousness  has  increased  to  an 
extreme  degree,  although  it  is  ditticult  to  undei'- 
stand  for  whom  she  is  always  hoarding,  since  she 
has  no  children,  and  is  related  to  no  one.  In  con- 
versation she  frequently  alhides  to  ^Vki'm,  and 
avers  that  ever  since  she  discovered  all  his  fine 
qualities,  she  has  come  to  cherish  a  great  respect 
for  the  Russian  peasant.  Kirillovna  has  pur- 
chased her  freedom  from  Lizaveta  Prokhorovna 
for  a  considerable  sum  and  has  mari'ied,  for  love, 
some  fair-haired  young  butler  or  other,  at  \\']iose 
hands  she  endures  bitter  torture;  Avdotya  is  liv- 
ing, as  of  yore,  in  the  woman's  wing  of  Lizaveta 
Prokhorovna's  house,  but  has  descended  several 
rungs  lower,  dresses  very  poorly,  almost  filthily, 
and  retains  not  a  trace  of  the  cityfied  afi^Vctations 
of  the  fashionable  maid,  or  the  hal)its  of  a  well- 
to-do  landlady.  .  .  .  Xo  one  takes  any  notice  of 
hei-,  and  she  herself  is  glad  that  they  do  not;  old 
Petrovitch  is  dead,  but  Akim  is  still  roving  on 
l)ilgi-images  — and  (iod  alone  knows  how  much 
longer  he  is  destined  to  wander! 


3U 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

(1861) 


'-M 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 


WKLL,  PioU-r  Is  aiiytlnii^-  to  I)l-  slt-ii  yet?  " 
iiKliiired  a  ^eiitleinaii  a  little  onxp  f'ortv 
years  oi'  a<^v,  in  a  dusty  coal  and  checked  trou- 
sers, on  May  'iOth.  18.39.  as  lie  emerged  hatless 
upon  the  low  ])oreh  of  a  i)osting-stati()n  on  the 
*  *  *  higlnvav.  of  his  servant,  a  chuhl)v-faee(l 
young-  fellow,  w  ith  whitish  down  on  his  chin,  and 
small,  dull  eyes. 

The  servant,  whose  every  eharaeteristie  — tlie 
tunnioise  car-ring  in  his  car,  and  his  pomaded, 
party-coloured  hair,  and  the  nrhane  movements 
of  his  hodv,  — evervthing,  in  a  word,  — hetraved  a 
man  of  tlie  newest,  ])ei-fected  generation,  gazed 
condescendingly  along  the  road,  and  replied: 
"  Nothing  at  all,  sir,  is  to  he  seen."' 

"  Is  nothing  to  he  seen!'  '"  repeated  the  gentle- 
man. 

Nothing  is  to  he  seen,"   re})licd  the  ser\ant, 
for  the  second  timi'. 

His  master  sighed,  and  seated  himself  on  the 
l)ench.  Let  us  make  the  reader  accjuainted  with 
him,  while  he  sits  there,  with  his  feet  tucked  ii|) 
under  him.  and  ga/ing  thought  full\-  .-n-niuid  him. 


FATHERS  Ay^D  CHILDKEX 

His  name  is  Xikohii  Petrovitcli  Kirsanoll".  ^Vt 
a  distance  of  fifteen  versts  '  from  the  posting-sta- 
tion, he  has  a  fine  estate  of  two  hundred  souls,  or— 
as  he  is  in  tlie  habit  of  expressing  it  since  he  por- 
tioned off*  to  the  peasants  their  huul  and  set  uj) 
a  "  farm  "  —  of  two  thousand  desyatinas  -  of  land. 
His  father,  a  figliting  general  of  1812,  able  to 
read  and  write  onlV  indifferently,  coarse,  but  not 
vicious,  a  Russian  man,  had  toiled  hard  for  a  live- 
lihood all  his  life,  had  commanded  first  a  brigade, 
then  a  division,  and  had  lived  uninterrui)tedly  in 
the  rural  districts,  where,  by  virtue  of  his  rank, 
he  had  played  a  fairly  ])rominent  part.  Nikolai 
Petrovitcli  had  been  born  in  the  south  of  Russia. 
like  his  elder  brothei-  Pavel,  of  whom  we  shall 
speak  hereafter,  and  had  been  reared,  uj)  to  liis 
fourteenth  year,  at  home,  sin-rounded  by  cheaj) 
tutors,  free-and-easy  but  obsecpiious  adjutants, 
and  other  regimental  and  staff'  officei-s.  His  mo- 
ther, froju  the  family  of  tlie  Kolya/ins.  called 
-^Vgathc  as  a  young  girl,  and  as  Madame  the  wife 
of  the  (General,  Agafoklea  Kn/minishna  Kirsa- 
noff*,  belonged  to  the  category  of  "  masterfid- 
conmianderesses,"  —  wore  sumptuous  caps  and 
rustling  silken  gowns,  went  up  first  to  kiss  the 
cross  in  church,  talked  loudly  and  much,  admitted 
her  children  to  kiss  her  hand  every  morning,  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  in  blessing  over  them  at  night, 

'  Ten  miles.— Translatob. 
^  A  clesyatina  equals  J. 70  acres. — Traxslatok. 


FA'iMi  i<:hs  AM)  (II  iij)in<:\ 

-  ill  a  word,  led  an  iiijoyal)!*.'  life.  In  liis  (juality 
of  son  of  a  o'eneral,  Xikolai  Pctmvitcli,  although 
hv  not  onh'  \\a.s  not  distiiio-in'shcd  foi-  coiiram'.  hut 
had  (Mil  earned  the  nieknaine  of  a  little  eouard. 
was  forced,  like  his  hrother  Pa\el,  to  eiitei-  the 
military  sei-\  iee:  hut  he  hroke  his  le^-  the  vvvv  da\' 
that  the  ne\\  s  of  his  appoinliiieiil  an-i\e(l,  and. 
after  l\in<^-  in  l)ed  lor  two  months,  remained  a 
"  limoN'  "  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  1 1  is  father  ii'Jive 
up  all  ho])e  of  him,  and  allowed  liini  to  enter  the 
eivil  serviee.  He  took  him  to  Petei-shui-^-,  as  soon 
as  he  was  eighteen,  and  placed  him  in  the  nni- 
vcrsitv.  His  hrothei-,  hv  the  wa\',  oradiiatcd  into 
the  (Guards  as  an  officer,  just  ahont  that  time. 
Tlie  yoiin(»-  men  he^an  to  Ii\e  together,  in  one  .set 
of  lod<)in«>s,  under  the  remote  super\ision  of  a 
^■rand-uncle  on  their  mothci-'s  side,  Ilya  Kolyazin, 
an  im|)ortant  official,  'i'hcii-  father  went  l)ack  to 
Ills  division  and  to  his  spou.se,  and  oidy  occasion- 
ally sent  to  his  .sons  l)!^-  (juarto  sheets  of  grey  pa- 
per, scrawled  ovei-  in  a  hold,  clei'kly  script.  A\ 
the  end  of  these  (juarto  sheets,  carefully  cncii-cled 
hy  "  cui-ly-cues,"  flaunted  the  woi-ds:  "  ri(')tr 
Kirsanofl'.  ^fajor-CTencral.""  In  1S;J.')  Xikolai  Pe- 
trovitch  n-raduated  from  the  iini\ei-sity  with  the 
degree  of  candidate,  and.  in.  tliat  same  year,  .(rcn- 
ci-al  Kirsanoff.  having  heen  |)ut  on  the  retired  li.st 
for  an  unsuccessful  review,  arrived  in  Petersburg 
^vith  his  wife,  \\ith  the  iiitejition  of  li\in<>-  there. 
He  was  on  the   point,  of  hii'lng  a  house  near  the 

Mr 


FATIIKKS   AM)   CIIILDKKX 

Tauris  Garden/  and  joining  the  English  Chib, 
w  hen  he  suddenly  died  of  apoplexy.  Agafoklea 
Kuzniinishna  speedily  followed  him:  she  eould  not 
get  aceustonied  to  the  dull  life  of  the  eapital;  the 
grief  of  her  j)osition  on  the  retired  list  worried  her 
to  death.  In  the  meantime.  Nikolai  Petro\'iteh 
had  sueeeeded.  already  during  the  lifetime  of  liis 
j)arents,  and  to  their  no  small  ehagrin,  in  falhng 
in  love  with  the  daughter  of  an  offieial  named 
l^re])ol6vensky,  the  former  landlord  of  his  lodg- 
ings, a  jjretty  and,  it  was  said,  a  well-edueated 
young  girl :  she  read  the  serious  articles,  under  tlie 
dei)artment  labelled  "  Science,"  in  the  new's- 
papers.  lie  married  her,  as  soon  as  the  period 
of  mourning  was  over,  and  quitting  the  Ministry 
of  the  Imperial  Appanages,  where  he  had  been 
entered  through  the  influence  of  his  father,  he  en- 
joyed felicity  with  his  31asha,  first  in  a  villa  near 
the  Forestry  Institute,  then  in  town,  in  a  tinv  and 
j)retty  aj)artment  Avith  a  clean  staircase  and  a 
]-ather  cold  drawing-room, and, at  last,  in  the  coun- 
try, where  he  definitively  settled  down,  and  where 
a  son,  Arkady,  was  shortly  born  to  him.  The  hus- 
l)and  and  wife  lived  very  well  and  (luietly:  they 
were  hardly  ever  separated  —  they  read  togethei-. 
])layed  four-handed  ])ieces  together  on  the  piano, 

^  The  Tauris  Garden,  i)art  of  wliicli  is  open  to  tiie  jjublio  in  summer, 
lies  in  a  j^ood  residential  (juarter  of  the  town,  attached  to  the  Tauris 
Palace.  The  latter  was  built  in  17S:}  by  the  F,mi)rcss  Katharine  II. 
for  Prince  Pat yom kin,  after  his  conquest  of  the  Crimea.  It  was  .soon 
bought  back,  at  Patyoinkin'c  death,  by  the  Crown. — Tii  vvsi.atou. 

6 


1  A  III  EUS    AM)   (  IIII,I)UK\ 

sang  (liR'ts;  she  planted  lloucrs,  and  .sii[)cr\  iscd 
the  poultry-yard;  he  went  Imntino  on  laix-  (xr;i- 
sions,  and  <K'C'U])ii'(l  hinisclf  with  the  farniin;^;  and 
.Ai-kady  _ni-e\v,  and  i^rew  also  well  and  (juietly. 
In  the  year  "  1-7.  1\  ii-s;in()fl'"s  w  i  (V  died.  He  hai'dK" 
sur\  ixi'd  this  hlow  .  and  his  hair  turned  i>i-f\-  in  tin- 
course  oC  a  lew  weeks:  hi'  ef)ntenij)late(l  going' 
ahroad,  for  the  purj)()se  of  di\  c-i-ting  his  mind  .  .  . 

hut  the  year '48  arrived  at  this  juuctui-e 

willv-nill\-.  he  returned  to  the  country,  and  after 
a  I'ather  prolonged  season  of  inaeti\  itv  he  undei-- 
took  agrienltui-al  ret'oi-nis.  In  the  yeai-  IS.").),  he 
took  his  son  to  tlu-  nnixersity:  he  s|)int  three  win- 
tei-s  with  lilni  in  Petershui'g,  going  out  hai'dly  at 
all,  and  endeavouring  to  strike  uj)  ae([uaintance 
with  Arkady's  youthful  conu-ades.  He  was  un- 
ahle  to  come  for  the  last  w  inter,  — and  here  we  ])e- 
hold  him.  in  ^lav  of  the  year  18.59,  already  com- 

•  •  • 

pletely  grey,  plump,  and  lather  stooping:  he  is 
awaiting  his  son,  who,  like  himself  in  years  gone 
hy.  has  graduated  \\  ith  the  degree  of  candidate. 
The  servant,  out  of  a  sense  of  decorum,  and 
possihly  also  hecause  he  did  not  wish  to  irmain 
undei-  his  master's  eye.  stei)|)e(l  under  the  gate- 
arch  and  lighted  his  |)i|)e.  \ikolai  Fetrdvitch 
hung  his  head,  and  hegan  to  stai-c  at  the  decrepit 
stei)sof  the  porch;  a  large,  piehald  chicken  stalked 
l)om|)ously  past  him.  with  a  sturdy  thud  of  its 
hig.  yellow  feet;  a  hcspattcred  eal  staled  at  him 
in  hostile  w  ise,  as  she  crouched  urindy  on  the  rail- 

7 


FATHKIJS   AM)   CIIILDIJKX 

iiig.  'V\k-  Sim  NViis  burning-  hot:  from  tlie  liall- 
(lark  anteroom  of  the  posting-station  an  odour  of 
warm  rye  bread  was  wafted.  Our  Nikolai  Petro- 
A'iteh  fell  into  a  i-everie:  "  Son  .  .  .  earuhdate  .... 
Ai'kjisha  .  .  .  ."  kept  incessantly  eireling  thi'ough 
his  brain :  he  made  an  effort  to  think  of  something' 
else,  and  again  reverted  to  the  same  thoughts,  lie 
called  to  mind  his  dead  wife.  ..."  She  did  not 
live  to  see  this  day!"  he  whispered  mournfully. 
.  .  .  .  ^V  fat,  (lark-))lue  pigeon  flew  down  into  the 
road,  and  liastily  betook  itself  to  the  puddle  be- 
side the  well,  to  drink.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  began 
to  stale  at  it,  but  his  ear  already  caught  the 
I'umble  of  approaching  wheels. 

"  I  think  they  are  coming,  sir,"  announced  the 
servant,  ])0])ping  out  from  under  the  gate. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
strained  his  eyes  along  the  road.  ^V  tarantas 
made  its  ap])earance,  drawn  by  a  troika  of  post- 
ing-horses: in  the  tarantas  there  was  a  gleam  of 
the  band  of  a  student's  cap,  the  familiar  outline 
of  a  beloved  face. 

"  Arkasha!  Arkasha!  "  shouted  Kirsanoff,  and 

started  on  a  run.  flourishing  his  arms A 

few  moments  latei",  his  ii|)s  were  glued  to  the 
beardless,  dusty,  and  sunburnt  cheek  of  the  young 
candidate. 


8 


II 

"  Let  me  shake  myself,  papa,"  —  said  Arkady,  in 
a  A'oice  that  was  rather  hoarse  from  the  ioiirnev, 
hut  ringing-  and  youtliful,  cheerily  responding  to 
his  father's  caresses,  — "  I  am  dauhing  tliee  all 
over.  ' 

"  Never  mind,  never  mind,"  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
repeated  again  and  again,  with  a  smile  of  emotion, 
and  lie  administeird  a  couple  of  hlows  with  his 
liand  on  the  coUar  of  liis  son's  cloak  and  on  his 
own  overcoat.  —  "  Let  me  look  at  thee,  let  me  look 
at  tliee,"  he  added,  sle|)ping  off,  hut  immediately 
strode  toward  the  ])()sting-station  with  hasty 
steps,  reiterating:  "  Here,  come  along,  come 
along,  and  let  us  have  horses  as  speedily  as 
possihle.  ' 

Xikohii  Petrdvitcli  apj)eare(l  to  he  far  more 
agitated  than  iiis  son:  it  was  as  tiiough  he  were 
somewliat  hewildered,  as  tliough  he  were  intimi- 
(hited.     Arkady  st()))ped  him. 

"  Papa,"  lie  said,  "  allow  me  to  introtluce  to 
thee  my  good  friend  JJazarof!',  of  whom  I  have 
so  often  >\ritten  to  thee.  He  has  heen  so  amiable 
as  to  consent  to  pay  us  a  visit." 

i) 


FATllKKS  AXD  ClULDREX 

Nikolai  PctroN  itcli  wheeled  swiftly  i-ouiid,  and 
stepping  up  to  a  man  of  lofty  stature,  in  a  long 
])easant's  overcoat  \\  ith  tassels,  who  had  only  just 
alighted  from  the  tarantas,  he  warndy  shook  the 
bare,  red  hand  which  the  man  did  not  immediately 
offer  him. 

"  1  am  heartily  glad,"  he  began,  —  "  and  grate- 
ful to  vou  for  your  kind  intention  to  visit  us:  J 
hope  .  .  .  Permit  me  to  inquire  your  name  and 
patronymic^  " 

"  Evgeny  \'asilitch,"  — replied  Bazaroff,  in  a 
languid  but  manly  voice,  and  turning  down  the 
collar  of  the  peasant  coat,  he  displayed  his  entire 
face  to  Nikolai  Petrovitch.  I^ong  and  thin,  with 
a  broad  forehead,  a  nose  which  was  flat  at  the  top 
and  pointed  at  the  tip.  with  large,  greenisli  eyes, 
and  pendent  sidewhiskers  of  a  sandy  hue.  it  was 
rendered  animated  by  a  calm  smile,  and  expressed 
self -confidence  and  cleverness. 

"  I  trust,  my  dearest  Evgeny  A'asi'litch.  that 
you  will  not  be  bored  with  us,"  — M'ent  on  Nikolai 
Petrovitch. 

I^-r/jiroff"s  thin  lii)s  nioxcd  slightly:  but  he 
made  no  leply.  and  merely  lifted  his  caj).  His 
dark-blond  hair,  long  and  thick,  did  not  conceal 
the  huge  })rotuberances  of  his  ample  skull. 

"  Well,  what  are  \ve  to  <lo,  Arkfidy?  " — began 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  again  turning  to  his  son.— 
"  Shall  we  have  the  horses  pnt  lo  at  once?  ()i-  do 
you  wish  Lo  rest?  " 

10 


FATIIKKS  AM)  (  iiii.i)in:\ 

W'f  will  rtsl  at  lioiiic,  papa;  give  orders  to 
have  the  horses  put  to." 

IiimiiMnately,  iiiiiiu'diately."  assented  his 
fatlici-.  "Iley.  tlici-c,  Pi(')tr.  dost  tlion  hear!* 
I  .ook  li\  ely  the  it.  iii\  n'ood  I)  rot  her:  see  to  tiling's. 

Piotr.  w  lio.  ill  liis  (jiialily  of  iin|)ro\'ed  doiiiestie, 
had  not  kissed  his  \()in)<>'  inaslers  hand,  l)iit  had 
merely  howed  to  him  from  a  distanee,  again  van- 
ished inside  the  gate. 

I  am  liere  with  a  calasji.  ])iit  there  are  three 
horses  tor  thy  tarantas,"  said  Xikohii  Petrovitch 
hastily,  w  hile  Arkady  was  drinking  water  out  of 
.•in  iron  dippei'  hronght  hy  the  keepei*  of  the  post- 
ing-station, and  Hazarott'  lighted  his  ])ipe  and 
ste])ped  u])  to  the  postilion,  who  was  unharnessing 
Ills  horses.  — ''  The  ealash  has  only  two  seats,  and 
1  do  not  know  how  thy  friend  .  .  .  ." 

"  He  will  diixe  in  the  tarantas,"  — interrupted 
Arkady,  in  an  undertone.  — "  Please  do  not  stand 
on  ceremony  with  him.  lie's  a  splendid  young 
fellow,  so  sim])le.  —  thou  wilt  see." 

Nikolai  Petrovitehs  eoaehman  ])rought  out  the 
liorses. 

"Come,  turn  round,  Thiekheard!  "  —  said  I5a- 
'/.iiroft'  to  the  postilion. 

"Dost  hear,  Mitiiikha,  |)ut  in  another  pos- 
tilion, who  was  standing  near,  with  his  hands 
thrust  into  the  real"  slits  of  his  sheepskin  eoat, — 
"  what  the  gentleman  eallcd  thee:f  'I'hieklieard 
it  was. 

11 


FA^III^1^S    AXl)   CIIILDUKX 

Mitii'iklia  merely  shook  liis  eap,  and  drew  the 
reins  from  the  sweating  shaft-horse. 

"  Be  quick,  he  (jiiiek.  my  hids.  lend  a  hand."  — 
exclaimed  Xikohii  Petrovitch.  — '' and  xoii  '11  «>ct 
somet]iin<j-  for  li(iuoi-!  " 

In  a  i'vw  minutes  the  horses  were  hai'ncsscd: 
father  and  son  seated  tliemseh  cs  in  the  calasli.  and 
Piotr  climhed  on  the  hox:  BazarofF  jumped  into 
the  tarantas  and  huried  his  head  in  the  leather  pil- 
low,—  and  hoth  equipaoes  rolled  off. 


12 


Ill 


"  So  linr  tlioii  ait  a  caiKlidalc  at  last,  and  liast 
come  lioiiic/- -said  Nikolai  IVtroxilcli,  loiicliin^- 
Arkady  ik/w  on  the  slioiddcr,  ii(»\\  on  tlic-  knee:  — 
"at  last!' 

".And  liow  is  uncle!'  W'elk  "'  asked  ^Vrkjidy, 
who,  despite  the  «^enuine.  almost  childish  joy 
which  filled  his  heart,  \\  ished  to  chan^'e  the  convei- 
sation  as  speedily  as  j)ossil)le  from  an  agitated  into 
a  commonplace  cnn-ent. 

\  es.  lie  had  intended  to  drive  ()\er  with  me 
to  meet  thee,  hut  changed  his  mind  for  some  rea- 
son or  other." 

''  And  hast  thou  heen  waiting-  long  for  me?  "  — 
asked  Arkady. 

Why,  al)out  fi\i'  lioiiis." 
■  (iood  papa  I 

Arkiidy  tui'tied  hriskly  toward  his  father,  and 
gave  him  a  lesounding  smack  on  the  cheek.  Xiko- 
hii   Petrovitcli  lauglie<l  softiv. 

What  a  magnificent  iiorse  i  ha\e  prepared 
for  thee!"  lie  Ixgan:  '  tliow  wilt  see.  And 
thy  room  has  heen  papered." 

.\nd  is  tlicrc  a  cliaiiilMr  for   Ha/,arofl"f" 

We    11  find  one  I'ny  Inni  aUn. 


FATHERS  AM)  CIIILDKEX 

"  Please,  papa,  do  pet  him  a  bit.  I  cannot  ex- 
press to  tliee  to  what  a  degree  I  prize  liis  friend- 
sliip. 

"  Thou  liast  not  known  him  very  long?  " 

"  Not  very  long." 

"  Tluit  is  why  J  did  not  see  him  last  winter.  In 
what  does  he  interest  himself?  " 

"  His  principal  subject  is  the  natural  sciences. 
But  he  knows  everything.  He  wants  to  take 
his  examination  for  the  doctor's  degree  next 
vear." 

"^Vh!  so  he's  in  the  medical  facultv," — re- 
marked  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  and  relapsed  into 
silence.  — "  Piotr,"  he  added,  and  stretched  out 
his  hand,  —  "aren't  those  our  peasants  coming 
yonder? " 

Pidtr  gazetl  on  one  side,  in  tlie  direction  wliitlier 
his  master  was  pointing.  ^Several  ])easant  carts, 
drawn  by  horses  M'itli  slackened  bridles,  were  roll- 
ing ])riskly  along  the  narrow  country  road.  In 
each  cart  sat  one,  oi*  at  the  most  two,  ])easants  in 
sliee])skin  coats  which  wci"c  open  on  the  birast. — 
"  Exactly  so,  sir,"  said  I'itUr. 

"  Wliithei-  are  tliey  going  —  to  town?  " 

I  sup])osc  it  must  be  to  tlie  town.  4'o  tlie 
di'am-shop,"  —  he  added  scorn  fully,  and  leaned  a 
little  toward  the  coachman,  as  lliougii  rrfci-ring  to 
him.  Hut  the  lattci-  did  not  e\  en  stir:  he  was  a 
man  oi'  the  old  school,  who  did  not  share  the  latesl 
views. 

14 


I  A'I'II1<:KS    AM)   (II  ILDKKX 

I  am  lia\  ill''  a  ^rcat  deal  ol'  Irouhk-  with  tlk 
peasants  this  year,"— pursued  Xikohii  Pctmvitch, 
addressing  his  sou.-  "  Tliey  will  tiot  ])ay  tlieir 
(juit-rent.'      What  wouldst  thou  do'  " 

And  ai-f  liion  satisfied  with  thy  liii-cd  la- 
hourers^   * 

^'es,''  said  Xikohli  l\iro\iteh  hetweeu  his 
teeth.  —  "  They  ai'e  stiri-ing'  them  iij)  to  misehiet', 
that  's  the  trouhle;  h()we\ei\  no  regular  attempt 
has  heen  made,  as  yet.  'IMiey  ruin  the  harnesses. 
l?ut  they  have  done  the  ploughing  all  i-ight. 
When  difheulties  are  surmounted,  all  goes  well 
again.  Hut  art  thou  alirady  interested  in  the 
i'arming :'  " 

"  Vou  have  no  shade,  and  that  s  a  great  j)ity. " 
—  remarked  Arkadv.  a\  ithout  answering  the  last 
(]uestion. 

I  have  added  a  large  awning  on  the  north 
side,  over  the  haleony."'  .said  Nikolai  Petroviteh: 
— "  and  now  we  ean  dine  in  the  open  air.  ' 

It  w  ill  look  awfully  like  a  sul)ui-han  villa  .  .  . 
however,  all  that  is  of  no  eonse(iuenee.  \\'hat  air 
there  is  here!  IIo\v  splendidly  fragrant  it  is! 
H<ally.  it  seems  to  me  that  nowhere  in  the  world 
is  it  so  fragrant  as  in  these  j)artsl  And  then  the 
sky  heie   .    .   ." 

..Vrkady  suddenly  pauseil.  east  a  sidelong 
glance  iK'hind  him,  and  hecame  silent. 

"  Of  eour.se,"  — remarked    Nikolai    l*etro\  iteh. 

The  iilfi'ik,  or  sum  paid  in  li'-u  of  pfrsim.il  labor.  —  'rH\sMM<«K. 

15 


I'ATIIKHS    AM)   CHILDHKX 

— ''  thou   wert   born   here,   and   evervtliing  here 
ought  to  seem  to  thee  pecuHarly  .  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  papa,  it  makes  no  difference  where  a 
man  was  horn." 

"  But  .  .  .  ." 

"  No,  it  makes  absolutely  no  difference." 

Nikolai  J^etrovitcli  gazed  askance  at  liis  son, 
and  the  calash  liad  traversed  half  a  verst  before 
the  conversation  was  resumed  between  them. 

"  I  do  not  rememlier  whether  I  wrote  to  thee," 
— began  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  — "  that  thy  former 
imrse,  Egorovna,  was  dead." 

"Really?  Poor  old  woman!  And  is  Proko- 
fitch  alive?  " 

"  Yes,  and  has  not  changed  in  the  least.  He 
still  grumbles  as  of  old.  On  the  whole,  thou  wilt 
not  find  many  changes  at  ]\larino." 

"  Hast  thou  still  tlie  same  overseer?  " 

"  AVhy,  the  change  in  tlie  overseer  is  about 
the  only  one  I  have  made.  I  have  decided  not 
to  keep  any  more  emancipated,  former  house- 
servants,  or,  at  least,  not  to  entrust  them  with  any 
duties  which  involve  responsibility."  (Arkady 
indicated  Piotr  witii  his  eyes.)  " //  est  lihrc,  cu 
i'ffet," — remarked  Nikolai  Petrovitch.  in  a  low 
tone,  — "  but,  you  see,  he  is  my  valet.  Now  I 
have  a  petty  burgher  as  overseer :  he  seems  a  prac- 
tical young  fellow.  I  liave  appointed  him  a  salary' 
of  two  hundred  and  fifty  rubles  a  year.  How- 
ever,"—  added   Nikolai    Petrovitch,   rub])ing  liis 

16 


lATIIKHS    AM)   (  iili.DKKX 

f'oiehcad  atid  cyt-hiou  s  v\  itli  his  liaiid.  uliici)  willi 
liiiii  was  always  a  si^ii  of"  inward  j)crtiirl)ati()ii. 
"  I  iiave  just  told  tlit-e  tliat  tlioii  woiildst  not  find 
any  changes  at  Mtirino.  .  .  'I'liat  is  not  (|uite  cor- 
rect. I  consider  it  my  duty  to  warn  tlicc,  al- 
thou«4h  .  .  .' 

lie  faltered  for  a  inonient,  and  then  eontiiuied, 
in  I'rench. 

"  A  strict  moralist  would  j'e^ard  my  frankness 
as  misj)lace(l,  l)ut,  in  the  first  place,  it  is  im|>os- 
sible  to  conceal  the  fact,  and,  in  the  second,  thou 
art  well  aware  that  I  have  always  entertained  j)e- 
culiar  j>rinciples  u  ith  le^ard  to  the  relations  be- 
tween father  and  son.  Hut.  of  course,  thou  wilt 
have  a  ri<^ht  to  condemn  me.  At  my  a^e  .... 
In  a  \\i)V(\  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  that  youn^-  girl,  ol" 
whom  thou  hast,  in  all  prohahijity,  alread\' 
heard  .  .  ." 

Fenitchkaf  '  asked  Aikady  easily. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  flushed.  -"  Please  do  not 
mention  her  name  aloud.  .  .  .  Well,  yes  .  .  .  she 
is  now  Ii\  ing  with  me.  I  ha\f  lodf^-cd  her  in  my 
house  ....  there  were  two  small  rooms  there. 
Ilowevei-,  that  can  Ix-  changed." 

"  And  why.  pray,  pa|)a' 

"  Thy  friend  is  to  visit  thee  .  .  it  is  awkward  .  .  ."' 

"  Please  do  not  worry  thyself,  so  far  as   Ha- 
zaroff  is  concerned.     He  is  al)Ove  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 
"  \\'ell.  tlioti  ...  in  short,"  — said  Xikohii  Petn'»- 

17 


FATHERS  AND  ClllLDKEN 

vitch.  —  "  the  small  wing  is  in  a  sorry  state  — that 's 
the  ditficLiltv." 

"  Upon  my  word,  papa,"'  — interpolated  xVr- 
ktidy,  — "  thou  wouldst  seem  to  be  making  apolo- 
ii'ies;  art  thou  not  ashamed  of  thyself^  " 

"  Of  eourse,  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself," 
—  replied  Nikolai  Petroviteh,  growing  more  and 
more  crimson  in  the  face. 

"  Enough,  papa,  — enough,  please,"  — Arkady 
smiled  affectionately.  "  What  is  there  to  apolo- 
gise for!  "  he  thought  to  himself,  and  a  sensation 
of  condescending  tenderness  toward  his  kind, 
gentle  father,  mingled  with  a  feeling  of  a  certain 
superiority  over  him,  filled  his  soul.  —  "  Stop, 
please,"  — he  repeated  once  more,  involuntarily 
enjoying  the  consciousness  of  his  own  progres- 
siveness  and  freedom. 

Nikolai  Petroviteh  cast  a  look  at  him  from  be- 
neath the  fingers  of  the  hand  with  which  he  con- 
tinued to  rub  his  forehead,  and  something  stung 
him  at  the  heart.  .  .  .  But  he  immediately  took 
himself  to  task. 

"  Here  is  where  our  fields  begin,"— he  said, 
after  a  long  silence. 

"  And  that  is  our  forest,  yonder  ahead,  1 
think?  "  —  in(iuired  ^Vrkady. 

"  Yes,  it  is  ours.  Only,  I  have  sold  it.  It  will 
be  felled  this  year." 

"Why  didst  thou  sell  itT' 

18 


1\\  Til  KKS    AM)   C  HIL1;HIA 

1  lU't'drd  IIk'  money:  ami.  l)c.si(l<k,s,  this  taiid 
«»()C.s  to  tlic  jx'asaiits.  " 

■'  Who  do  not  pay  tijcc  Iheif  (juit-iciil !"   ' 

"  Tliat  's  thcii-  art'air:  however,  they  w  ili  pay 
II])  some  time  oi'  other." 

"  It  is  a  |)it\-  alM)nt  the  forest,"  — remai'ked  Ar- 
kady, and  l»e<4an  to  ^a/.e  ai)oiit  him. 

'Vhv  loeahties  thronyh  which  tliey  were  j)assiM^- 
conhl  not  l)e  called  pietnre.s(iiie.  Fields,  nothing 
hut  fields,  stretched  away  to  the  very  horizon,  now 
rising'  <»ently,  a<^ain  sinking-;  here  and  there  small 
])atehes  of  i'ore.st  were  visihle,  and  here  and  there 
ravines,  overgrown  with  sparse,  low  hu.shes, 
wound  in  and  out,  reeallin*^-  to  the  eye  the  rej)re- 
.sentations  of  them  on  ancient  plans  of  the  time 
of  Kathei'inc  II.  Here  and  there,  also,  small 
stnuuns  were  to  he  eneountered.  with  washed-out 
hanks,  and  tiny  j)onds  with  wi'ctchcd  dams,  and 
little  handets  with  low  cottages  under  (hirk 
i-oofs,  which  often  had  heen  half  swept  away,  and 
lop-sided  threshing-sheds  with  wattled  walls  of 
hrushwooiS.  and  clHuchcs.  now  of  hiick  with  the 
stucco  peeled  of!"  in  ))laces.  now  of  \vood.  with 
shmting  cro.s.ses  and  ruini-d  graveyards.  Ar- 
kady's heart  gradually  contracted.  As  though 
expressly,  they  kept  meeting  peasants  in  clothing 
wliich  was  too  tight  with  long  wcai',  on  w  rctchc<l 
nags;  like  hcggai's  in  rags  stood  the  i-oadside  ^\  il- 
lows,    with   tattered   hark    and    hroken    hranclus; 

19 


FA'IMII<:i?S   AM)   CIIILDHFA' 

thin,  scabby,  apparently  faniislied  cows  were 
greedily  nibbling  at  the  grass  along  the  ditches. 
Thev  seemed  to  ha\'e  iiist  succeeded  in  tearina- 
themselves  I'rom  some  menacing,  death-dealing 
talons,  —  and,  evoked  by  the  pitiful  aspect  of  the 
debilitated  beasts,  amid  the  tine  spring  day,  there 
arose  the  white  wraith  of  the  cheerless,  endless 
winter,  with  its  blizzards,  frosts,  and  snows.  .  .  . 
"  No,"  —  thought  Arkjidy,  "  this  is  not  a  rich 
land;  ii  does  not  strike  the  beriolder  witi  its 
abundance  or  its  industry;  it  is  impossible,  im- 
possible for  it  to  remain  like  this;  reforms  are  in- 
dispensable .  .  .  but  how  are  they  to  be  brought 
about,  how  is  one  to  set  to  work:*  .  .  .  " 

Thus  did  Arkady  meditate  .  .  .  and  while  he  was 
meditating,  the  spring  asserted  its  rights.  Every- 
thing roinid  about  was  ringing  with  a  golden 
sound,  everything  was  stirring  with  broad,  soft 
agitation  and  shining  beneath  the  tranquil  breath 
of  the  warm  breeze,  — everything, — trees,  bushes, 
and  grass;  everywhere  the  larks  were  carolling 
in  unending,  sonorous  floods;  the  lapwings  were 
alternately  shrilling,  as  they  soared  in  circles 
above  the  low-lying  meadows,  and  silently  hop- 
ping over  the  hillocks;  the  daws  stalked  about, 
handsomely  black  against  the  tender  green  of  the 
s])ring  rye,  which  was  still  low  of  growth;  they 
])reached  sermons  in  the  rye,  which  was  already 
turning  slightly  whitish,  oidy  now  and  then  show- 
ing their  heads  amid  its  smokelike  billows.     Ar- 

20 


FATIIKHS    AM)   C  II  ILDKKX 

kiidy  ^a/cd,  and  <4a/.i(l.  and  liis  iMcdilations  ^i-ad- 
iiallv  faded  awav,  llicn  vanislu'd  altotfctlKT.  .  .  . 
lie  Hiin«»'  oft'  liis  iinif'onn  coat,  and  looked  at  his 
fatluT  so  nuri-ily,  so  mncli  like  a  yoiin^>-  hoy,  that 
the  lattei'  enihiaeed  him  onee  more. 

We  ha\e  not  mneli  t'in'tlier  to  ^^o  now,"  —  re- 
marked Nikolai  l\'ti-(')\  iteli,  "  w  c-  ha\c  only  to 
ascend  yonder  hill,  and  the  house  will  he  visihie. 
We  are  ^oin^'  to  <»et  on  tonethei'  splendidly,  Ar- 
kasha:  thou  slialt  help  me  with  the  farming-,  it'  it 
does  not  ])ore  thee.  Wc  must  heconie  intimate 
with  each  otlier  now  ;  we  must  know  each  other 
well,  must  we  not  ^  " 

"Of  course,"  —  .said  Ai-kTuly:  "hut  what  a 
ma«'"niticent  day  this  is  I" 

"It  is  in  hoiioni'of  thy  arri\al.  dear  heart. 
Vcs,  it  is  s])rin<4-  in  all  its  ^loi-y.  Hut  I  a^ree 
with  l^i'ishkin  — do.sdr  thou  rememher,  in  "  Kv<ien\' 
Onyegin  ': 

''IIow  >;i(l   i>  ih\    coiiiiii^  to  inc, 
Sprino-,  spriii;^-.    tlic  time  of  1()\»! 
How    .    .    .    ." 

"  Arkiidy!  "  ran<4  out  lia/ai-off's  xoice  from 
the  tarantcis:  -"  send  me  a  maich.  I  have  no 
/neans  of  liLi'htini^'  my  l)ip'  ■ 

Nikolai  Petrdvitch  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
Ark.'ldy.  who  had  he^tni  lo  list  en  to  him.  not  w  ith- 
oiil  a  certain  snr])rise.  hut  also  not  without  s\ m- 

■Jl 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDREX 

])athy,  liastened  to  ])ull  a  silver  niatcli-box  from 

his  pocket  and  despatch  it  to  Bazaroff  by  I'iotr. 

■  \\'ilt  thou  have  a  ciijar?  "  — sliouted  BazaroiF 


a^ain. 


"  Hand  it  over,"  — replied  .Vrkady. 

Piotr  returned  to  the  calasli,  and  handed  him, 
in  company  with  the  matcli-box,  a  thick,  black 
cigar,  which  Arkady  immediately  lighted,  dis- 
seminating about  him  such  a  strong  and  acrid 
odour  of  rank  tobacco  that  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
who  had  never  smoked  in  his  life,  involuntarily — 
though  unperceived,  in  order  not  to  oiFend  his 
son — turned  away  his  nose. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  both  carriages  drew 
up  at  the  steps  of  a  new  wooden  house,  j^ainted 
grey,  and  covered  with  a  red  iron  roof.  This  was 
Marino,  also  Xovaya-Slobodka;  or.  according  to 
the  peasants'  name  for  it,  Bobyly-Khutor.' 

^  Nocayn-Slobodka,  Xew  Suburb:  Bobyly-Kliutor,  Lar>dless  rarni.— - 

Tkansi.ator. 


22 


\y 


No  tlirong  of  liouse-scrvaiits  ))()iir(1  forth  ti|)ori 
the  porch  to  uclcoinr  tlic  mastci-s:  thr  only  ])cr.son 
who  sliowed  herself  was  a  httle  ••irl  ol'  twelve,  and 
in  hei'  \\akc  tiiei'e  enier<»e(l  i'roin  Hit  house  a 
youn^'  lad  who  hoi-e  a  strong  resenil)lane(.'  to 
l^iotr,  elad  in  ;i  ^rev,  livery  round  jacket,  witli 
Nvhite  arniouried  huttons,  the  sev\ant  of  l'a\  el  Pe- 
trovitch  Kirsanof!'.  He  silently  oj)ened  the  door 
of  the  calash,  and  unhuttoned  the  apron  of  the 
tarantjis.  Nikolai  l*etn')vitch.  with  his  son  and 
]^a/jiroff*,  walked  through  a  dark  and  almost 
empty  hall,'  IVom  hehind  whose  door  the\  c-au^ht 
a  rieetin^'  <»lim|)se  of  a  youn<^'.  feminine  lace,  to 
the  (^ra^^■in•»•-rooIll.  which  was  aliead\  I'ninished 
in  the  latest  taste. 

Hei'c  \\'e  ai"e  at  home."  -said  Nikolai  l*eti"(')- 
vitch,  remoN  in^'  his  cap.  and  shakin<^'  l)ack  his 
hail".  --"  Tlie  chief  tiling'  now  is  to  haxc  sii|)|)rr 
and  to  rest." 

1 1  I'eally  would  not  he  a  had  idea  to  ha\  i-  some- 
thin^"  to  eat."  rem;iikcd  Razaroff.  stretchinu' 
himself,  and  drop|)in<4'  dow  n  on  a  couch. 

^'es,  yes.  ser\e  sup|)ei'  ;is  (jiiickK  as  possihic." 

'  Tin-  "  liall  "  i--  ;i  I -I  II 1 1  hi  I  i.'i  I  ion  ni    music  nHiiii,  l>.ill-ri«>m.  .iikI  |i|;i\  - 

r<H»lll.  rit  \  \  -.I    VTllM. 


1  ATllKKS  AM)  CIIILDKEX 

—  Nikolai  Petrovitch  stam})ed  liis  feet,  witliout 
any  visible  cause.  — "  By  the  \\av,  here  is  Proko- 
fitch." 

There  entered  a  man  of  fifty,  wliite-haiied,  thin, 
and  swarthy,  in  a  light-brown  frock-coat  witli 
brass  buttons,  and  a  pink  kercliief  round  his 
throat.  He  grinned,  kissed  Arkady's  hand,  and 
bowing  to  the  guest,  retreated  to  the  door,  and 
put  his  hands  behind  him. 

"  Here  he  is,  Prokofitch," — began  Nikolai  Pe- 
trovitch,— "  he  has  come  to  us,  at  last.  .  .  .  Well? 
What  dost  thou  think  of  him?  " 

"  He  is  in  the  best  condition,  sir,"  said  the  old 
man,  and  grinned  again,  but  immediately  knit 
his  thick  brows.  — "  Do  you  command  the  table 
to  be  set?  "—he  said  impressively. 

"  Yes,  yes,  if  you  please.  But  will  you  not  go 
to  your  room  first,  Evgeny  Vasilitch?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  there  's  no  necessity.  Only, 
])lease  give  orders  to  have  my  little  trunk  carried 
thither,  and  this  horrid  old  garment,  also,"  lie 
added,  taking  off  the  peasant-coat. 

"  Very  good.  Prokofitch,  take  his  coat."  ( Pro- 
kofitch, in  a  sort  of  stupefaction,  gras])ed  the 
"  horrid  old  garment  "  in  both  liands,  and  ele- 
vating it  high  above  his  head,  witluh-ew  on  tiptoe. ) 
"  And  thou,  Arkady,  wilt  thou  go  to  tliine  own 
room  for  a  minute?  " 

"  Ves,  1  must  get  myself  clean,"  replied  Ar- 
kady, and  started  towai'd  the  door;  but  al  that 

24 


1  A  riII':HS    AM)   (  IIII.DHKN 

moment  there  entered  the  diaw  inj^-i-ooni  a  man 
of  medium  stature,  dressed  in  a  dark  lMi|^lisli 
suit,  a  f'asliionable,  low  neektie,  and  low,  patent- 
leather  shoes,  -  I'avel  I*etr<'>\  itch  KirsanofV.  In 
uppearanee,  he  was  ahonl  I'ortN  -live  ycais  ol'  a^c: 
liis  elosely-eli|)[)ed  ^rey  haii"  shaded  <lark  in  ceitain 
lights,  like  new  siher:  his  face,  sallow,  hui  divoid 
of  wrinkles,  remarkahly  re»»nlar  and  j)ui"e  in  out- 
line, as  thou^'h  carved  out  with  a  lii^lit,  delieate 
chisel,  displayed  tiaees  of  reniarkahle  heauty: 
especially  fine  were  his  hiilliant.  hlaek,  almond- 
shaj)ed  eyes.  The  whole  person  of  ^Vrkiidy's 
uncle,  elef»ant  and  hi^h-hred,  jjreserved  its  youth- 
ful grace,  and  that  asj>iration.  upward,  away 
from  the  earth,  which  generally  disaj)pears  after 
the  twentieth  year.  Pavel  Petrovitch  drew  from 
the  pocket  of  his  trousei's  his  heautifnl  hand  with 
its  long,  rosy  nails,  which  seemed  still  more  heauti- 
fnl fVom  the  snow-whiteness  of  his  en  ft'  huttoned 
with  a  single  large  opal,  and  ga\c  it  to  his  nephew. 
IIa\  ing  accomj)lishe(l  the  |)reliminaiy  Kin'opean 
"  shake-hands,"  he-  exchangid  three  kisses  w  ith 
liim,  in  llnssian  fashion,  that  is  to  say.  he  thrice 
touched  his  cheek  with  his  perfumed  moustache, 
—  and  said:  "  Welcome!  " 

Nikolai  I'etn'witch  introduced  him  to  Hazjiroft': 
Pavel  Petnnitch  slightly  Ik  nl  his  suj)j)le  form, 
and  sli<rhtlv  smiled,  hut  he  did  not  ofl'er  his  hand, 
and  e\cn  put  it  hack  in  his  |)ocket. 

"  I  had  already  hegun  to  think  tiiat  you  would 

•2.') 


lAlIIKUS  AM)   CIIILDKEX 

not  anivc  today,"— he  said  in  a  ])k'asaiit  voice, 
ainiahly  swayiiit^.  twitching  his  shoulders,  and  dis- 
phivinu"  his  \erv  fine  wliite  teeth.  —  "  Did  anv- 
IhiniJ'  lia|)ijen  on  the  road?" 

"  Xotliino-  hap]jened,*'  rephed  Arkady,  — "we 
wvvc  a  little  late,  that  is  all.  But  we  are  as  hunoi-y 
as  wolves.  Hurry  ujj  Prokofitch,  papa,  and  I 
will  be  back  immediately." 

"  Wait.  I  will  go  with  thee,"  — exclaimed  Ba- 
zarofF,  suddenly  tearing  himself  from  the  divan. 
The  two  young  men  left  the  room. 

"  Who'is  that?  "-asked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

"  A  friend  of  Arkfisha's,  a  very  clever  man,  ac- 
cording to  him." 

"  Is  he  going  to  make  you  a  visit?  " 

"  Yes." 

"That  hirsute  fellow?" 

"  Well,  yes." 

Pavel  Petr(nitch  drummed  on  the  table  with  his 
finger-nails:  —  "  T  think  that  Arkady  s\:st  dc- 
fi;(nirdi,"  he  remarked.  —  "  I  am  glad  he  has  come 
back." 

At  supper  thei-e  was  very  httle  conversatiori. 
]ia/jiroff'.  in  ])articular.  said  hardly  a  word,  but 
he  ate  a  i>reat  (leak  Nikolai  I'etrovitch  narrated 
various  anecdotes  from  his  farmer's  life,  as  lie  ex- 
])ressed  it,  discussed  the  imj)en(ling  administra- 
tive measures,  committees,  delegates,  the  necessity 
of  introducing  machinery,  and  so  forth.  Pavel 
]V'trovitch  paced  slowly  to  and  fro  in  the  dining- 

26 


FATIIKKS   AM)  C  IIIl.DHKN 

room  (lie  mc\  c  r  siipiK-d),  oiicr  in  a  wliilr  taking  a 
sip  from  liis  \\  iii<.--^la.ss  filled  witli  it<l  winr.  aii<l 
still  moir  rarely  iittcriu*'-  some  rcmaiU.  or.  ratli*  r. 
some  exclamation,  like  '*  All!  '"  '"  Kliel  "  "  I  I'm!  "' 
Arkt'uK'  eommimieated  some  Petersl)ui-<i'  news. 
l)ut  lie  I'elt  a  sli<^lit  I'mharrassmeiit  the  emhai- 
I'assment  wliieli  uenei'ally  takes  ])ossessi<)n  of  a 
y()imt>'  man  when  he  has  jnst  eeased  to  he-  a  child 
and  has  returned  to  the  i)lace  whei'c  i)eo|)le  lia\c 
been  accustomed  to  .see  him  and  re^ai'd  him  as  a 
child.  He  lengthened  out  his  sj)eeeli  unneces- 
sarily, avoided  the  word  '  ])ai)a,  "  and  once  he  even 
suj)ersede(l  it  with  the  word  "  father," — emitted, 
it  is  true,  thr()u<»h  his  teeth;  with  supei'tluously 
free  and  easy  mannei-,  he  j)oured  out  into  his  ••lass 
a  great  deal  more  wine  than  he  wanted,  and  di'ank 
the  wliole  of  it.  l*rok('>fiteh  ne\er  look  his  eyes 
off  him.  and  mei'ely  made  a  chewing  movement 
with  his  li|)s.  They  all  separated  immediately 
after  supi)er. 

"  'I'hat  unek'  oC  thine  is  a  (jiieer  soii  of  fish. 
—  said  Ha/ai'off  to  Arkady,  sitting-  down  in  his 
(lressing-goN\  n  heside  him  on  his  hed,  and  siK'kmg 
away  at  a  shoi't  jtipe.  "  ()ne  can  I  lulp  thitd<ing 
that  he  has  a  j)retly  dandilied  style  for  the  coun- 
try. And  his  nails,  why,  yon  eoidd  send  his  nails 
to  the  eN])osition  I  " 

"  Hut  thou  ai't.  e\  ideiitly.  ignorant  of  the  fact." 
--i"e|)lied  Arkad\.  "Ih;il  he  w.is  .-i  soeiety  lion 
in  his  I  inx'.     I  w  ill  tell  tlu<'  his  history  nnc  of  these 

27 


FATHERS  AM)  ClilLDUKX 

davs.    You  see,  he  Mas  a  beautv,  and  turned  the 
women's  heads." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  He  does  it  now  in  nienioiy 
of  the  old  days.  There  is  n't  any  one  to  fascinate 
here,  more's  the  pity.  I  kept  watching  him: 
what  wonderful  cuffs  he  has,  just  as  tliough 
they  were  made  of  stone,  and  liis  chin  is  so  accu- 
rately shaved.  It 's  ridiculous,  is  n't  it,  Arkady 
Nikolaevitch?  " 

"  Possibly:  only,  he  really  is  a  fine  man." 
"  An  archaic  manifestation!    But  thy  father  is 
a  splendid  fellow.    There  's  no  good  in  his  reading 
poetry,  and  he  probably  has  n't  much  sense  about 
the  farming,  but  he  's  a  good  soul." 
"  ]\Iy  father  is  a  man  of  gold." 
"  Hast  thou  noticed  that  he  is  timid  ^  " 
Arkady  shook  his  head,  just  as  though  he  were 
not  timid  himself. 

"  Astonishing  phenomenon  these  elderly  ro- 
manticists!"— went  on  Bazaroff.  "They  de- 
velop  their  nervous  system  to  the  2)oint  of  ex- 
asperation .  .  .  well,  and  then  the  equili])rium  is 
destroyed.  But  good-bye!  Tliere 's  an  Englisli 
washstand  in  my  room,  but  the  door  will  not  l(K'k. 
All  tlie  same,  English  waslistands  ' — that  is  to 
say,  progress — must  be  encouraged!  " 

Bazaroff  went  off,  and  a  sensation  of  joy 
took  possession  of  Arkady.     It  is  sweet  to  fall 

^  The  Russian  washstand  has  a  reservoir  of  water  on  top,   and  no 
plup,  and  the  water  is  lilierated  by  a  foot-treadle. — Thansi.atoh. 

28 


FA  TliKKS    AM)   (  IIII.DiJKX 

asleep  in  the  pureiilal  li')iiie,  in  the  i'ainiliai-  l)e(l. 
over  whicli  loved  liaiuls  have  toiled,  per]ia])s  tlie 
liands  of  an  old  nuise,  those  earessiii*';',  kind,  in- 
defatji^ahle  hands.  Ai'kjidy  recalled  K^(')rovna, 
and  si^«lied,  and  l)reallied  a  j)rayer  thai  the  king- 
dom of  heaxeii  ini^'ht  ])e  hers.  .  .  Tie  did  not  pray 
i'or  liiniseir. 

Both  he  and  Ha/aroff*  ])roinptly  Tell  aslee]).  hnt 
it  was  a  long"  time  still  Ijcfore  the  other  persons  in 
the  honse  •>"()t  to  sleej).  'I'lie  relni-n  of  his  son  had 
excited  Xikoliii  Petrdvitch.  He  went  to  hed,  hnt 
did  not  extini»insh  his  eandle,  and  })ropping  his 
head  on  his  hand,  he  indnlged  in  a  prolonged 
reverie.  His  hrother  sat  in  his  stndy  nntil  lon^ 
after  midnight,  in  a  capacious  (iamhoft* '  easy- 
ehair,  in  front  of  the  fireplace,  in  which  liard  coal 
was  faintly  smouldering.  Pavel  Petrovitch  had 
not  undressed  himself,  but  had  merely  replaced 
his  low  ])atent-leather  pumps  with  red  Chinese 
slippers  without  heels.  He  held  in  his  hands  the 
last  number  of  GaJl^Udii'i ,  hut  he  did  not  lead  it; 
he  stared  intently  into  the  grate,  where  the  bluish 
flame  ftiekered,  now  dying  down,  now  flashing  uj) 
....  God  knows  where  his  thoughts  were  roaming, 
but  thev  were  not  n)aming  in  the  ])ast  alone:  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  concenfratecr  and 
gloomy,  which  is  not  the  case  when  a  man  is  en- 
grossed in  memories  only.  And  in  a  c'iny  rear 
room,  on  a  large  coffer,  sat  the  young  woman,  Fe- 

•  .V  wdl-known  cabinet-maker  of  that  period. —Tbavsi.atoh. 


•20 


1  ATIIKHS   AM)  CIIILDKKX 

iiitclika,  in  a  sky-blue  short  jacket,'  witli  a  white 
kerchief  thrown  over  lier  dark  liair,  and  alter- 
nately listened,  dozed,  and  stared  at  the  door, 
whicli  stood  ajar,  beyond  wliich  a  child's  })ed  was 
visible,  and  the  even  breathing  of  a  slee])in<^"  child 
was  audible. 

^  Literally  a  "soul-wanner  ":  a  uackled  peasant-jaeket,  eilli<T  ti^lit 
fittinfj  to  the  waist,  below  which  it  has  dose  orj^aii  plaits:  or  fallin<? 
from  the  slioulders  in  broad  box-piaits  to  the  waist:  and  with  very 
long,  tapering  sleeves. — Traxsi.atoii. 


,•^0 


Ox  tlif  follow  i  11^-  iiioriiiiio.  Hazaroir  awoke 
earlier  than  any  of  the  otlicrs.  and  went  oiil  oi 
doors.  "  Klie!  "  hv  thou^^iil.  al'tci-  casting-  a  glance 
around  hini.  "  this  is  n't  a  \  cry  showy  j)la('c." 
When  Xikoliii  Petroviteh  hall  |)ortione(l  of!'  \\\v 
hind  hetween  liiinself  and  the  j)easanls,  he  had 
])een  ohli^ed  to  assi«rii  for  his  new  nianor-hoiise 
four  desvatinas  of  ])erl'eetl\-  Hal  and  naked  fields. 
Tie  liad  erected  a  house,  offices,  and  farnidjiiild- 
in*»'s.  had  laid  out  a  ^^ardeii.  had  dni^'  a  pond  and 
a  couj)le  of  wells:  i)ut  the  youn;^'  trees  had  struck 
root  ])a(lly.  \ery  little  water  had  collected  in  the 
pond,  and  the  watei'  in  tin-  wells  j)ro\e(l  to  liaxc  a 
1)i'ackis]i  taste.  Only  one  ai'hour  of  lilacs  and 
acacia  had  ^•l•o^^■n  faii'ly  well:  in  it  they  sonietiines 
drank  tea  and  dined.  1  n  a  few  minutes,  Ha/arofr 
liad  made  the  round  of  all  the  |)aflis  in  the  ^^ai'dcn, 
had  |)aid  a  little  \  isit  to  tlie  catt  le-yaid  and  to 
the  stal)le,  had  hunted  old  two  small  hoys  iV- 
loimiui''  to  th(  housc-.scr^  aiits,  with  whom  he  nad 
immc(hatel\  slniek  \\\)  an  ae(|iiaintanee,  and  had 
•••one  ofV  with  tlnni  to  a  small  marsh,  situated 
ahout  a  \eist  distant  fioiii  the-  mam ir-ln msc,  in 
(juest  of  fro^s. 

.>  1 


FATllKKS  AM)   ClllLDKEX 

"  AVhat  (losi  thou  want  frogs  for,  master?" 
one  of  the  httle  hoys  asked  him. 

"  Why,  I'or  tliis,"  — re])he(l  Bazaroff,  wlio  pos- 
sessed a  sj)ecial  faculty  for  inspiring  the  lower 
classes  with  confidence  in  him.  altliough  he  never 
indulii'cd  tliem,  and  treated  them  carelessly:  — 
"  I  'm  going  to  split  the  frog  open,  and  see  what 
is  going  on  inside  of  it:  and  as  thou  and  1  are 
exactly  like  frogs,  exce})t  that  we  walk  on  our 
legs,  then  I  shall  also  know  what  is  going  on  inside 
of  us." 

"  But  what  dost  thou  Avant  to  know  that  for?  " 

"  In  order  that  T  may  not  make  mistakes,  if 
thou  shouldst  fall  ill  and  I  had  to  cure  thee." 

"  Art  tliou  a  doctur?  "  ^ 

"  Yes." 

"  Dost  hear,  Vaska,  the  gentleman  says  that 
thou  and  I  are  just  the  same  as  frogs.  Won- 
derful!" 

"  I  'm  afraid  of  them,  of  frogs,"  — remarked 
Vaska,  a  lad  of  seven,  witli  a  liead  as  wliite  as 
fiax,  clad  in  a  grey  kazak  coat  with  a  standing 
collar,  and  harefooted. 

"  AVliat  is  tliere  to  he  afraid  of  (*  they  don't  bite, 
do  they? " 

"  Come,  now,  liop  into  the  water,  you  ])liil()s- 
ophers,"  —  said  Hazaroif. 

Ill  the  meantime,  Nikolai  I'ctnnitcli  had  also 
waked  up.  and  had  l)etaken  himself  to  Arkatly, 

'   riic  jit-asaiit  pronunciation. — Traxsi.atou. 

32 


rATIIKKS    AM)   (  IIII.DKKX 


whom  lio  fouiul  (hvsscd.  l-'atlici-  and  son  went  out 
on  \hv  vn-nnda.  iMi(kr  tiic  slultci-  of  tlit-  awning: 
t'losf  to  llic  lailiims.  on  a  lalilc  iM'twcrn  l)ii>' 
hnnclics  of  lilacs,  tin-  sani()\ar  was  ali(a(l\-  hnl)- 
l)liiig'.  A  little  Li,irl  made  lici-  appcai'ancc  the 
saiiK'  one  who  lind  liccii  tlic  liist  to  inert 
llic  ti'a\illci's  on  the  porch  ;iiid  said  in  a  siifiJl 
voice: 

"  Feodosya  Xikoliicvna  docs  not  feci  (juite  well, 
and  cannot  come:  she  ordered  me  to  ask  yon. 
wlicthcr  yon  will  ponr  tea  for  Nonrschcs.  oi*  shall 
slic  send  Dnnyiisiia  :"   " 

I  will  |)oni-  it  myself,  myself,"— Nikolai  l*e- 
trdvitcli  cani>lit  her  up  hastily.  "  How  dost  tlion 
take  thy  tea,  Arkady,  — with  cream  oi*  with 
lemon :"  " 

'  With  cream," — replied  Arkady,  and  aftei-  a 
hrief  panse  he  ejaculated:  —  "  l*apa!  " 

Nikolai  l^etrdvitch  looked  at  his  son  with  dis- 
comfiture.—  "  AN'hatif  "  —  he  said. 

Arkady  (lrop])ed  his  eyes. 

"  Kxcnse  me,   papa,   if  my   (juestion   seems   to 
thee  improper."      he  heoan;    'hut    thou,   thyself, 
1)V  thv   frankness  \esterda\,  hast  challent'ed  me 
to  frankness  ....  thou  wilt  not  he  angi-y  I"  ...."* 
^>peaK  on. 

''  Thou  givest  me  holdness  to  ask  thee.  .  .  Is  n  t 
Fen  ...  is  n't  it  hecanse  I  am  hcie  that  she  is  not 
coming'  to  |)o\n-  the  tea  !* 

Nikolai  l*etr(')\  itch  tuined  slightly  aside. 


FATIIKKS   AM)   ClIll.DKKX 

"  PtThaps."  — he  said  at  last,  —  "  slic  supposes 
.  .  .  she  is  ashamed  .  .  .  ." 

Arkadv  swit'th-  tinned  his  eves  on  his  I'atlier. 

•  •  • 

"  'IMiei'e  is  no  neeessity  for  lier  to  i'eel  ashamed. 
In  thi'  first  plaee,  tlion  art  aecpiainted  with  my 
manner  of  tli()u<^ht  "  (  Ai-kad\-  louiid  it  extremely 
pleasant  to  nttei-  these  words)  :  "  and.  in  the  see- 
ond  place,  have  1  the  desire  to  interfere,  hy  so 
much  as  a  hair's-hreadth,  with  thy  life,  thy  hahits? 
Moreover,  I  am  convinced,  that  thou  eouldst  not 
make  a  had  choice:  if  thou  hast  permitted  her  to 
live  under  one  roof  \\'ith  thee,  she  must  be  worthy 
of  it;  in  any  case,  the  son  is  not  his  father's  judge, 
and  in  partienlai-  T  — and  in  ])articnlar  of  such  a 
fathei-,  who,  like  thyself,  has  never  restricted  my 
freedom  in  any  res[)ect  whatever."      ' 

Arkady's  voice  had  trembled  at  first:  he  felt 
that  he  was  magnanimous,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
he  understood  that  he  was  delivering  something 
in  the  nature  of  an  exhortation  to  his  father;  but 
the  sound  of  his  own  speech  acts  ])owerfully  on 
a  man,  and  Arkady  uttered  his  closing  words 
firndy,  even  effectively. 

"  Thanks,  Arkasha,"  — said  Nikolai  retrovitch 
in  a  dull  tone,  and  again  his  fingers  strayed  over 
his  eyebro\\-s  and  his  foi-ehead.  — "  'I'hy  assum])- 
tions  really  are  correct.  Of  course,  if  that  girl 
were  not  worthy  .  .  .  This  is  not  a  fickle  fancy. 
It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  talk  to  thee  about  this; 
l)ut  thou  understandest  that  it  was  difficult  for 

34 


FATIIKKS   AM)  CIIILDKKX 

]ier  to  conic  liitlicr,  into  lliy  |)rcscMcc,  especially 
on  tlic  first  day  ol"  lliy  lionic-coniin^-." 

In  that  case,  I  w  ill  ^o  to  licr  myself,"  —  cried 
Arkady,  with  a  fresh  impulse  of  magnanimous 
sentiments,  and  he   jumped  u|)  from  the  talde.— 

I   will  explain  to  her  that  she  has  no  I'ause  to 
feel  ashamed  hel'ore  me." 

Nikolai    Petrovitch  rose  also. 
Arkady,  '—he  he^an,     *'  |)lease  .  .  .  how  is  it 
possihle  .  .  .  there  ....  1  have  not  forewarned 
thee  .  .  .  ." 

Hut  Arkiidy  was  no  lon*4"er  listening-  to  him, 
and  had  (juitted  the  veranda.  Xikolai  Petrovitch 
looked  after  him,  and  sank  down  on  his  ehaii-  in 
confusion.  His  hcai't  heat  violently.  .  .  .  W'hethei- 
it  was  that,  at  that  moment,  tlir  iiie\  itahle  strange- 
ness of  the  future  relations  hetween  him  and  his 
son  presented  itself  to  him,  or  that  lie  i-ceoonised 
the  fact  that  Arkady  would  liaxc  sliow  n  almost 
more  res])eet  I'oi'  him  iiad  \\c  imt  toiiclkd  on  tlial 
matter  at  all,  or  whether  he  was  i-e|)i-oaehiii;4  liim- 
self  \\\[\\  weakness — it  would  he  dinicult  to  say: 
all  those  feeliui^s  were  w  itliin  him.  hut  in  the  shape 
of  sensations  -  and  not  eleai-  sensations,  at  that: 
hut  the  ttush  did  not  iea\('  his  faei',  and  his  heart 
heat  violently. 

llastv  footstej)s  hecame  audihU.  and   Arkady 
cmergi'd    upon    the    \"ei*and;i.      "  \\'e    h;i\«'    iii;id( 
ac(juaintanee,  t';ither!  "      he  cried,  w  it li  ;in  expres- 
sion of  affeetionate  and  amiahle  liiumpli  on  his 


FATHERS  AXD  CHILDREN 

face.  — "  Feodosva  Xikolaevna  really  is  not  very 
well  to-day,  and  will  come  later.  But  why  didst 
not  thou  tell  me  that  I  had  a  brother?  I  would 
have  given  him  a  good  kissing  yesterday  evening, 
as  I  have  done  just  now." 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  tried  to  say  something,  tried 
to  rise  and  hold  out  his  arms.  .  . 

Arkady  threw  himself  on  his  neck. 

"  What 's  this?  Hugging  each  other  again?  " 
— rang  out  Pavel  Petrovitch's  voice  behind  them. 

Father  and  son  were  equally  delighted  at  his 
appearance  at  that  moment:  there  are  touch- 
ing situations,  from  which,  notwithstanding,  one 
wishes  to  escape  as  promptly  as  possible. 

"Why  art  thou  surprised?  "  —  said  Nikolai 
Petrovitcli  merrily.  — "  I  liave  been  longing  for 
Arkasha  for  ages  ....  I  have  n't  yet  had  a 
chance  to  stare  my  fill  at  him  since  yesterday." 

"  I  'm  not  surprised  in  the  least,"  — remarked 
Pavel  Petrovitch:  — "  I  'm  even  not  disinclined  to 
give  him  a  liug  myself." 

Arkady  step])ed  u])  to  liis  uncle,  and  again  felt 
on  his  cheeks  the  touch  oi"  his  perfumed  mous- 
tache. Pavel  Petrovitch  seated  himself  at  the 
table.  He  wore  an  elegant  morning  costume,  in 
English  fashion;  his  head  was  adorned  ^vith  a  tiny 
fez.  This  fez  and  his  carelessly  knotted  tie  hinted 
at  the  freedom  of  country  life;  but  the  stiff  shirt - 
collar — not  white,  it  is  ti'ue,  but  coloured,  as  is 

36 


1  A'rni<:i{s  wn  (  ii  i  i,i)in:\ 

proper  lor  a  inoriiiti<4'  loiKl      iiiipingcd  upon  tlic 
wt'll-sliaved  cliio  ^\ith  its  Iiahilual  implacal)ilily. 

''  A\'1r'|-('  is  tliy  IU'^\  t'ricnH?"-  lie  asked  i\r- 
kady. 

"  IK'  is  iiol  III  llif  I  louse;  lie  «4cii(  ralK  rises  early 
and  ^oes  oft' somewliere.  Tlie  elm  f  point  is,  tlial 
one  Ui^ci]  ))ay  no  alteiition  to  Iiiiii:  lie  is  not  t'ond 
of  ceremony." 

"  Yes,  tliat  Is  evident."      Pavel  l*etr6vitcli  be- 

<^an,  in  a  leisurely  way,  to  s})read  ])utter  on  his 

])read.      "  Is  lie  ^'oing"  to  make  tliee  a  lon<j-  visit;*  " 

'  'I'liat  is  as  it  happens.    He  lias  turned  aside 

liere,  on  his  way  to  his  father's.'' 

"  And  where  does  liis  father  live?  " 

"  In  our  L»"o\  ernment.  eighty  versts  from  here. 
He  has  a  small  estate  there.  He  used  to  he  a  regi- 
mental doctor." 

"  Te,  te,  te,  te That  is  jirecisely  the  reason 

wh}-   I   lune  ke})t  asking'  myself:  AVlieie  ha\c'   I. 
heard   that   name    HazjiroftV  .   .   .   Nikolai,    does 
my  memory  serve  me,  and   was  not  the  niedieal 
man  in  our  fathei"'s  di\ision  Ha/ai'oft':'  " 
It  strikes  me  that  it  was." 

"  Precisely,  precisely.  So  that  medical  man  is 
his  father.  I  I'm  I  ""  -Pjiv<'l  Petrdviteli  twitched 
his  moustache.  — "  \VelI,  and  v>!iat  sort  of  person 
is  ]SIr.  Ha/Jiroft'  himself  f  "  he  asked,  \\ith  pau.ses 
between  the  words. 

'' \\'hat    .sort    of    person    is    Bazaroff  :*  "     Ar- 

O/ 


1  A'riiKKs  AM)  ciiiij)in<:x 

kiiclv  laiiL>liL'cl.  — "  Would  vou  like  to  have  ine  tell 
you,  my  dear  uncle,  what  sort  of  jierson  he  is?  " 

"  Pray  do,  my  dear  nephew." 

"  lie  is  a  nihilist." 

"  What?  "  —  asked  Nikolai  Peti'oviteh :  and 
Pavel  I'etroviteh  elevated  liis  knife,  with  a  hit  of 
huttei'  stieking  to  the  hiade.  in  the  aii\  and  re- 
mained motionless. 

"  lie  is  a  nihilist,"  —  repeated  Arkady. 

"  A  nihilist,"  said  Xikolai  Petroviteh.— 
"  That  eomes  from  the  liatin  niJiil .  nothing,  so 
Car  as  I  can  jud«Je;  eonse(|uently,  that  word  desig- 
nates a  man  who  .   .   .   who  reeotj-nises  nothin*4-.  " 

"  Say:  '  who  respects  nothing.'  "  —  put  in  Pavel 
Petrovitcli,  and  devoted  himself  once  more  to  his 
Initter. 

"  Who  treats  everything  from  a  critical  point 
of  view,"  —  remarked  Arkady. 

"And  isn't  that  exactly  the  same  thing?"  — 
incjuired  Pavel  Petroviteh. 

"  Xo,  it  is  not  exactly  the  same  thing.  A  nihil- 
ist is  a  man  who  does  not  how  hefore  any  au- 
thority whatever,  mIio  does  not  accept  a  single 
l)rinciple  on  faith,  with  whatever  respect  that 
l)rinciplc  may  he  environed." 

"And  dost  thou  think  that  is  a  good  thing:' " 
—  interrupted  Pavel  PetrcSvitch. 

"  That  depends  on  Avho  it  is,  dear  uncle.  It  is 
all  right  for  one  man,  and  very  bad  for  another." 

"  ^'on  do?rt  say  so.    Well,  I  perceive  that  that 

88 


1  ArUKT^S    AND   CINLDHKN 

is  not  111  our  line.  \\  v  people  ol'  tlie  old  scliool 
assume  tlial,  witlioul  p|-iMei|)les  "  |l*;t\(l  l*et!-('>- 
vitcii  |)ronoiiiiee(l  lliis  woid  sol'tly.  in  Hie  I-'reneli 
stvlc.      .\rkii<l\,  on    llie  eontiaiw   prononneed   il 

•  •  •  I 

principles,  '  linow  iiiLi  tlie  accent  on  the  fii'st  syl- 
lable), "  uitliont  accepted  pi'inci'ples,  as  tlio\i  say- 
est,  it  is  ini|)ossil)le  to  take  a  stej).  oi-  to  l)rcathe, 
on  faith,  /'oz/.v  avi'Z  change  tout  cclei.  (iod  «»rant 
us  health  and  the  rank  of  «>'cnerak  hnt  wc  will 
content  ourselves  with  adniirin*'-  the  Messrs. 
what  do  you  call  it?  " 

"  The  nihilists,"  —  said  Arkjidy  w  ith  much  dis- 
tinctness. 

"  Yes.  They  used  to  be  TIegelists,  and  now 
they  arc  nihilists.  Let  us  see,  how  you  will  exist 
in  the  vacuum,  in  the  atmosj)heric  expanse;  but 
now,  be  so  o-ood  as  to  rin«4'  the  bell,  brother,  Niko- 
lai l*ctro\itch,  it  is  time  for  me  to  drink  my 
cocoa." 

Nikolai  Petrovitcb  rang",  and  .shouted:  "  l)un- 
yasha!"  Hut,  instead  of  Dunyasha,  Fenitchka 
lier.seli'  made  her  aj)pcarance  on  the  veranda.  She 
was  a  young  woman  of  three  and  twenty,  all  white 
and  soft,  with  dai*k  bail'  and  eyes,  red,  child- 
ishly-j>lum])  lii)s,  and  tender  hands.  She  wore  a 
neat  ])rint  gown:  a  new  .  iight-i)lue  kerchief  rested 
lightly  on  hei-  j>lumj)  shoulders.  She  carrieil 
a  large  cuj)  of  cocoa,  and  setting  it  dow  n  in  front 
of  Pavel  IVtrovitcb,  becanu-  covered  with  con- 
I'usion :  the  liot  blood  diffused  itself  in  a  crimson 

31) 


FATHERS  AXD  CHIT.DREX 

flood  bcneatli  the  delicate  skin  of  her  pretty  face^ 
She  dr()pj)ed  her  eyes,  and  remained  stan(hng  be- 
side tlie  table,  liglitly  resting  upon  it  the  very  tips 
of  her  fingers.  She  seemed  to  be  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing come,  and,  at  the  same  time,  she  felt,  ap- 
parently, that  she  had  a  right  to  come. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  knit  his  brows  sternly,  and 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  overwhehiied  with  con- 
fusion. 

"  Good  morning,  Fenitchka," — he  muttered 
through  his  teeth, 

"  Good  morning,  sir," — she  rej^lied,  in  a  sonor- 
ous but  not  loud  voice,  and,  casting  a  sidelong 
glance  at  Arkady,  who  bestowed  a  friendly  smile 
on  her,  she  softlv  withdrew.  She  walked  with  a 
slight  waddle,  but  it  suited  her. 

Silence  reigned  on  the  veranda  for  the  space 
of  several  minutes.  Pavel  Petrovitch  sipped  his 
cocoa,  and  suddenly  raised  his  head.  — "  Here  is 
Mr.  Nihilist  about  to  favor  us  with  his  company," 
—  he  said,  in  an  undertone. 

And,  in  fact,  Razaroff  was  coming  through  the 
garden,  striding  across  the  flower-beds.  His 
linen  coat  and  trousers  were  spattered  with  mud; 
a  clinging  marsh  plant  encircled  the  crown  of  his 
old,  round  hat;  in  his  right  hand  he  grasped  a 
small  bag;  in  the  bag  some  live  creature  was 
squirming.  He  rapidly  a])proached  the  veranda, 
and  nodding  his  head,  he  said:  — "  Good  morning, 
gentlemen ;  excuse  me  for  being  late  to  tea ;  I  will 

40 


FA'I'HI'Jrs    AM)   C  IIILDHKX 

Ik-  hjick  <lirct'tl\  :    I    iiiiist    |)n)\  idc  f'oi-  tlicsf  j)ris- 


oiiers." 


"  \\'liat    Iia\c  you    tlurc      ket'lies!' "  — iiKjuired 
Piivcl  Pctmvitt'li. 
Ao,  tro^s. 

"  Do  you  cat  tlifm  — or  raise  tliciii?  " 

"  They  art-  foi-  cxpcjIiiK.'nts,"  — said  Bazaroff 
iiuliflVrcntly,  and  \\v\\[  into  the  house. 

"  lie  is  ^-oiu^-  to  cut  them  uj),"  —  remarked 
Pavel  Petroviteh.  —  "  lie  does  not  beheve  in  2)rin- 
ci'ples,  but  he  does  believe  in  frogs." 

xVrkiidy  ga/ed  at  his  uuele  with  compassion: 
Xikohii  l^etnnitch  shru»^«»ed  his  shouIdei-s  on  the 
sly.  Pavel  Petroviteh  himself  was  conscious  that 
his  witticism  had  not  been  a  success,  and  be(>an  to 
talk  about  the  farming  operations,  and  the  new 
overseer,  who  had  cojuc  to  him  on  the  previous 
day  to  complain  that  iahourci-  J/'oma  was  "  de- 
baucheering  "  and  was  incoiTigiblc.  "Tie's  a 
regular  .1^]sop."  he  said,  among  otlier  things:  "  he 
has  ])rotested  cxciywhei-e  that  he  is  a  bad  man; 
after  he  has  ]i\  ed  a  while  longer,  he  11  get  rid  of 
his  folly." 


41 


VI 

Bazaroff  returned,  sat  down  at  the  table,  and 
began  hastily  to  drink  tea.  Both  brothers  stared 
at  him  in  silence,  while  Arkady  glanced  stealth- 
ily, now  at  his  father,  now  at  his  uncle. 

"  Have  you  walked  far  from  here?  "—asked 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  at  last. 

"  You  have  a  small  swamp  yonder,  alongside 
the  aspen  grove.     I   started  up  five  woodcock; 
thou  mightest  shoot  them,  Arkady." 
"  Don't  you  shoot?  " 
"  No." 

"  Do  you  occupy  yourself  with  the  physical 
sciences  in  particular?  "  —  inquired  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch, in  his  turn. 

"  Yes,  with  physics;  with  the  natural  sciences 
in  general." 

"  The  Germans,  I  am  told,  have  made  great 
progress  in  that  department  of  late." 

"  Yes,  the  Germans  are  our  teachers  in  that," 
—  replied  Bazaroff  carelessly. 

The  word  "  Germtintzy "  Pavel  Petrovitch 
had  employed,  instead  of  "  nyemtzy,"  '  by  way  of 
irony,  which,  however,  no  one  noticed. 

"  Have  you  so  high  an  opinion  of  the  Ger- 

^  Nyenu-tz,  "  the  dumb  one,"  (that  is  to  say:  a  person  who  cannot 
talk  the  laiiuuane  of  tlic  country),  is  applied  to  foreigners  in  general, 
and  Germans  in  particular. — TaANSi^TOR. 

42 


FA'III1:HS  AM)  (  Illl.l)KKX 
maIls:'"  said  I'livtl  IVtnnitdi.  uitli  sedulous 
courtesy.  He  liad  heoiui  lo  feel  a  secret  iirita- 
tion.  His  ai'istoei  alie  nature  was  stiired  to  re- 
volt hy  iia/aroir's  perfectly  IVee-aiid-easy  man- 
ners. 'I'liat  medical  man's  son  was  not  oid\'  not 
afraid,  lie  e\X'n  i-ej)lied  al)ru|)tly  and  reluctantly, 
and  there  was  s()nicthin»i'  rude,  almost  insulting-, 
in  the  very  soiuul  of  his   xoice. 

"  Tile  learned  men  theic  air  a  practical  race." 

".Just  so,  just  so.  Well,  you  pi-ohahly  have 
not  so  Uattei-inn"  an  o|)inion  of  the  Kussian  s(  •- 
entists!*  " 

"  Prohalily,  that  is  so." 

"  That  is  very  pi-aiseworthy  self-renunciation,' 
—  ejaculated  IVivel  Petrovitch,  drawing  uj)  his 
fitrure,  and  throwing  his  head  hack.^"  lint  how 
conies  it  that,  as  Arkiidy  Xikolaiteh  was  just 
telling  us,  you  do  not  recognise  any  authorities? 
Do  not  you  helieve  in  them?  " 

"  Hut  why  should  I  recognise  them?  And 
what  should  I  helieve  inf  They  tell  me  a  fact, 
and  I  helieve  it,  that  is  all." 

"  Hut  do  the  Germans  all  speak  facts?  "  —  said 
Pavel  Petrovitch,  and  his  face  assumed  an  indif- 
ferent, distant  expression,  as  though  lie  had 
wholly  withdi-awn  into  some  height  ahove  the 
clouds. 

"  \ot  all,"  replied  Ha/;iroH',  with  a  slioi-t 
yawn,  heing,  evidently,  unwilling  to  prolong  the 
co?itroversy. 

I'avel  Petr(')vitch  daited  a  glance  at    Arkadv, 

43 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDKEX 

as  mucli  as  to  say:  "Thy  friend  is  polite,  tlioii 
must  admit  that."  — "  So  far  as  I  myself  am  con- 
cerned,"— he  hegan  again,  not  without  an  effort, 
—  "sinful  man  that  I  am,  1  am  not  fond  of  the 
Germans.  I  am  not  alluding  to  the  Russian- 
Germans  of  course;  every  one  knows  what  sort  of 
hirds  they  are.  But  I  cannot  stomach  the  Ger- 
man-Germans either.  Those  of  former  days  are 
well  enough;  then  they  had  Schiller,  I  believe, 

Goetthe ^ly  brother  here,  accords  them 

special  favour.  .  .  But  now  a  lot  of  chemists  and 
materialists  have  sprung  up  among  them " 

"  A  respectable  chemist  is  twenty  times  more 
useful  than  any  poet,"  —  interrupted  Bazaroff. 

"  You  don't  say  so!  " — said  Pavel  Petrovitch, 
and    barely    elevated    his    eyebrows,    exactly    as 

•  •  • 

though  he  were  in  a  doze.  — "  I  suppose  that  you 
do  not  recognise  art?  " 

"  The  art  of  making  money  without  sensational 
aids!"  —  exclaimed  Bazaroff,  with  a  scornful 
sneer. 

"  Exactly  so,  sir;  exactly  so,  sir.  You  are 
pleased  to  jest.  So  you  reject  that?  Let  us  as- 
sume that  you  do.  That  means  that  you  believe 
only  in  science?  " 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  believe  in 
nothing;  and  wliat  is  science — science  in  general? 
There  is  science  which  is  a  trade,  a  vocation;  but 
science  in  the  abstract  docs  not  exist." 

"  Very  good,  sir.    A  Veil,  and  in  regard  to  other 


FATIIKHS    AM)   (  IIIM)1?KX 

laws,  wliic'li  ai'c  .■iccrplid  in  liuiiKiii  ixisttiicc.  - 
do  you  hold  the  sniuc  negative  eourse  about 
theniT' 

"  AN  lial  is  tins,  a  ei'oss-exaiiiiuation  !*  "  iiuiuii'ed 
Ha/aiofl". 

I'avel  PetroN  iteii  |)alc(l  sliglitly Xikolai 

Peti-(nit('li  regarded  it  as  liis  duty  to  /)oiii  in  the 
com  ei'sation. 

^^)U  and  1  will  diseuss  this  suhjeet  iiioi'e  in 
detail,  soiuetinie,  my  diai-  Kvgeny  \'asiliteh:  I 
^vill  leai'u  your  opinion,  and  e\j)ress  my  own. 
For  my  own  part,  I  am  \ei\v  glad  that  you  are 
devoting  yourself  to  the  natural  seieuces.  I  have 
heard  that  Liehig  has  made  wonderful  diseoveries 
in  regard  to  fertilising  the  land.  Vou  may  he 
able  to  assist  me  in  my  agrieuUural  woik:  you 
may  he  ahle  to  give  me  some  u.seful  advice." 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  Nikolai  I'etrdvitch;  hut 
what  have  we  to  do  with  Liehig  I  ()ne  must  fii'st 
learn  the  ali)hahet,  and  then  take  hold  of  a  hook, 
but  so  far  we  lun  e  not  even  set  our  eyes  on  xV." 

"  Well,  I  ])erceive  that  thou  I'eally  ai't  a  ni- 
hilist," thought  Xikoi;ii  Petrdviteh.  — "  Never- 
theless, permit  me  to  have  recourse  to  you,  in  ease 
of  lu'cd," — he  added  aloud.-  "  ^And  now.  hro- 
ther,  I  think  it  is  timi'  Tor  us  to  go  and  have  a 
talk  with  the  overseer." 

Pa\(I    l\tro\iteh   rose   Ironi   Ins  chair. 

"  Vcs,"^ — said  he.  w  itliout  looking  at  ;iny  one. 
— " 't  is  ;i  gi'eat  mislni-lunc  In  li\c  thu.^   foi"  li\<' 


FATHERS  AND  CHILUREX 

years  in  the  country,  at  a  distance  from  great 
minds!  One  becomes  a  downright  fool.  One  is 
endeavoming  not  to  forget  what  he  has  learned, 
when — bang!  —  it  suddenly  appears  that  it  is  all 
nonsense,  and  one  is  told  that  sensible  folks  do 
not  bother  themselves  anv  longer  about  such  fol- 
lies,  and  that  one  is  as  good  as  a  simpleton  who 
has  fallen  behintl  the  times.  AVhat  is  one  to  do! 
Evidently,  the  young  folks  are  really  wiser  than 
we  are." 

Pavel  Petrovitch  wheeled  slowly  round  on  his 
heels,  and  slowly  withdrew;  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
followed  him. 

"  Well,  is  he  always  like  that?  " — inquired  Ba- 
zaroff  coolly  of  xVrkady,  as  soon  as  the  door 
closed  behind  the  two  others. 

"  See  here,  Evgen}^  thy  manner  toward  him 
has  been  altogether  too  abrupt," — remarked  Ar- 
kady.— "  Thou  hast  offended  him." 

"  Why,  the  idea  of  my  coddling  these  rural  aris- 
tocrats! Why,  it 's  nothing  but  self-conceit,  the 
habits  of  a  society  lion,  foppishness.  Come  now, 
he  ought  to  have  continued  his  career  in  Peters- 
burg, since  that  is  the  cut  of  his  jib.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, God  be  with  him — I  wash  mv  hands  of  him 
altogether!  I  have  found  a  pretty  rare  specimen 
of  a  water-beetle,  Diftisciis  marginatus — dost 
thou  know  it?    1  '11  show  it  to  thee." 

"  I  promised  to  narrate  his  history  to  thee," 
began  Arkady. 

46 


FAl'HKirs   AM)  ('IIII.l)KKN 


"  The  history  of  the  hcclk-r' 

"Conic,  stoj)  thai.  l<'vMvny.  My  uncle's  his- 
tory. Tlioii  wilt  sec  that  lie  is  iiol  (lie  sod  of 
man  that  tlioii  imat^incst.  He  is  more  (li'scrvin«»' 
of  pity  than  of  ridicule. '" 

"  I  do  not  dispute  that;  hut  what  is  it  to  thee 
anyhow  ?  " 

"  \Vc  must  he  just,  Ev<renv." 

"  On  MJiat  «»roun(lsif  " 

"  No,  listen.   .   .   ." 

And  Arkady  related  to  him  his  uncle's  story. 
The  reader  a\  ill  find  it  in  the  following  chapter. 


VII 

Pavel  Petrovitch  Kirsanoff  had  received  his 
earhest  education  at  home,  hke  his  younger  bro- 
ther, Nikolai,  and,  later  on,  in  the  Pages  Cori:)s. 
From  his  childhood,  he  had  been  distinguished 
for  his  remarkable  beauty;  added  to  this,  he  was 
self-confident,  given  to  raillery,  and  splenetic  in 
a  rather  amusing  fashion — he  could  not  fail  to 
please.  He  began  to  be  seen  everywhere,  as  soon 
as  he  had  become  an  officer.  He  was  petted,  and 
he  coddled  himself;  he  even  played  the  fool,  he 
even  indulged  in  caprices,  but  this  suited  his 
style.  The  women  went  wild  over  him,  tlie  men 
called  liim  a  fop,  and  secretly  envied  him.  He 
lived,  as  we  have  already  said,  in  an  a})artment 
with  liis  brother,  whom  he  sincerely  loved,  al- 
though lie  did  not  resemble  him  in  the  least. 
Xikolai  Petrovitch  walked  with  a  slight  limj),  liad 
small,  agreeable,  but  ratlier  melanclioly  features, 
small,  black  eyes,  and  soft,  thin  hair;  he  liked  to 
be  lazy,  but  was  also  fond  of  reading,  and  was 
afraid  of  society.  Pavel  Petrovitcli  never  spent 
a  single  evening  at  home,  gloried  in  liis  audacity 
and  cleverness  (he  had  l)rought  gymnastics  into 
fashion  among  tlie  young  men) ,  and  had  read  not 

48 


FATIIKHS   AM)  CIIILDl^KX 

Jiioiv  than  (ixc  oi-  six  hooks  in  h'rc'ncli  — alto- 
getlRT.  Al  the  a^f  of  cioht  and  twenty,  he  was 
already  a  c'ai)tain;  a  hi-illiant  caiccr  awaiti-d  him. 
All  of  a  sudden,  e\  ciythiiio'  was  changed. 

At  that  time,  a  woman  wlio  lias  not  yet  heen 
forgotten,  Tiineess  1{  .  .  ,  was  wont  to  make  liei- 
a])})earanee,  from  time  to  time,  in  Petersburg 
society.  She  had  a  well-educated  and  decorous 
hut  somewhat  stupid  hushand,  and  no  ehildi'en. 
She  would  suddenly  go  abroad,  and  as  suddeidy 
return  to  Kussia,  and,  in  general,  she  led  a 
strange  life.  She  bore  the  i-ei)utation  of  being  a 
giddy  eocjuette,  gave  herself  uj)  with  enthusiasm 
to  all  sorts  of  pleasures,  danced  until  she  was 
ready  to  drop,  laughed  loudly  and  jested  with  the 
young  men,  whom  she  received,  before  dinnei-. 
in  a  half-darkened  drawing-room,  and  at  night 
wept  and  prayed,  and  found  rest  nowhere,  and 
often  flung  her.sclf  about  the  room  until  day- 
break, wi-inging  hei-  hands  with  grief,  oi-  sat,  all 
l)ale  and  cold,  reading  the  Psalter.  Day  ani\fd. 
and  again  she  turned  into  a  woman  of  the  woild, 
again  she  went  out  into  society,  laughed,  chat- 
tered, and  fairly  i-ushed  at  everything  which 
could  afford  the  least  dixei'sion.  She  was  won- 
derfully built:  lici-  hair,  golden  in  hue  and  as 
lieavy  as  gold,  hung  IkIow  her  knees:  yet  no  one 
would  have  called  hei-  a  beauty:  the  onlv  good 
point  about  her  face  was  hei-  eyes,  and  not  e\  en 
her  eves   themselves—  tliev   were  not    lai<>-e,   an(l 


FATHERS  A\D  CHILDREN 

were  grey — but  tlieir  glance,  swift  and  deep, 
heedless  to  recklessness,  and  thoughtful  to  melan- 
choly,—  was  a  mysterious  glance.  There  was  an 
unusual  gleam  about  them,  even  when  her  tongue 
was  babbling  the  most  idle  nonsense.  She  dressed 
with  elegance.  Pavel  Petrovitch  met  her  at  a 
ball,  danced  the  mazurka  with  her,  in  the  course 
of  which  she  did  not  utter  a  single  sensible  word, 
and  fell  passionately  in  love  with  her.  Being 
accustomed  to  conquests,  he  speedily  attained  his 
object  in  this  case  also;  but  the  ease  of  his  victory 
did  not  chill  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  became 
still  more  torturingly,  still  more  firmly  attached 
to  this  woman,  in  \\'hom,  even  when  she  had  given 
herself  irrevocably,  there  still  seemed  to  linger 
something  intimate  and  inaccessible,  into  which 
no  one  could  penetrate.  What  it  was  that  nested 
in  that  soul,— God  only  knows!  She  appeared 
to  be  in  the  grasp  of  some  powers  A\'hich  were 
mysterious  and  unknown  even  to  herself;  they 
played  with  her  as  they  would ;  her  limited  mind 
could  not  reconcile  itself  to  their  freaks.  .  .  .  Her 
whole  conduct  presented  a  series  of  incongrui- 
ties; the  only  letters  which  might  have  aroused 
the  just  suspicions  of  lier  husband  she  wrote 
to  a  man  who  was  almost  a  stranger  to  her,  and 
her  love  had  a  taste  of  sadness:  she  neither 
laughed  nor  jested  with  the  one  whom  slie  had 
chosen,  and  she  listened  to  him,  and  gazed  at  him, 
with  surprise.     Sometimes,  and  in  the  majority 

50 


I  A  rill<:KS    A\U   C  IliLUHKX 

of  cases  siuKkiily,  this  siirpi'isr  passed  ovci-  iiiln 
c-old  terror;  Ikt  lace  assuiiu-d  a  wild  and  deatli- 
likc  ex|)rt'Ssi()M;  she  locked  herself  iij)  in  lier  hed- 
rooni,  and  her  maid,  hy  puttin<^-  lur  cai-  to  the 
keyhole,  eonld  heai-  hei-  sulxlued  so])l)ino-.  More 
than  onee,  on  retnii  in*;*  home  after  a  tender  tryst. 
Kirsiinoff'  fell  in  liis  juait  th.d  lacerating-  and 
hitter  vexation  which  sprin«»s  i.j)  in  the  heai't 
lifter  a  decisive  failure.  "  What  moic  do  I 
want^  "  he  would  ask  himself,  hut  his  heart  con- 
tinued to  ache.  One  day  he  ^ave  her  a  ring  with 
a  sphinx  carved  on  the  stone. 

"  AX'hat  is  thisl'  "  —  she  asked:  —  "  a  sphinx?" 
"  Yes,"  —  lie   replied,     "  and   that   sphinx   is  — 
yourself." 

I  ?  "  —  .she  a.sked,  and  slowly  raised  her  enig- 
matic eves  to  his.  —  "Do  \<)u  know  that  is  very 
flattering?  "  —  she  added,  with  an  insignificant 
smile,  hut  her  eyes  continued  to  wear  their 
.strange  gaze. 

IMvel  Petrovitch  felt  heavy  at  heart  even 
when  Princess  K  .  .  loved  him;  but  when  she  grew 
cold  toward  him  —  and  this  came  about  rather 
promptly,  he  almost  went  crazy.  He  tormenteil 
himself,  he  raged  with  jealousy,  he  gave  her  no 
peace,  he  tagged  about  everywhere  after  her;  his 
importunate  persecution  boicd  her.  and  she  went 
abroad.  He  resigned  I'rom  the  ser\  ice,  despite 
the  entreaties  of  his  friends  and  the  exhortations 
of  his  superior  otliccrs,  and    followed   the    Prin- 


rATIIKRS  AND  CIIILDREX 

cess;  he  spent  four  years  in  foreign  lands,  now 
chasing  after  her,  now  intentionally  losing  siglit 
of  her:  he  was  ashamed  ol'  himself,  he  was  en- 
raged at  his  pusillanimity  ....  hut  nothing  did 
any  good.  Her  image,  that  incomprehensihle, 
almost  ahsurd,  hut  enchanting  image,  had  en- 
sconced itself  too  deeply  in  his  soul.  In  Baden 
he  someliow  resumed  liis  former  relations  witli 
her,  and,  to  all  appearances,  she  had  never  loved 
him  so  passionately  .  .  .  but  in  a  month  all  was  at 
an  end;  the  flame  had  flared  up  for  tlie  last  time, 
and  had  been  extinguished  forever.  With  a 
foreboding  of  the  inevitable  parting,  he  endeav- 
oured, at  least,  to  remain  her  friend,  as  though 
friendshi])  \\'ith  such  a  woman  were  possible.  .  .  . 
She  quietly  left  Baden,  and,  from  that  day  forth 
persistently  avoided  Kirsanoff.  He  returned  to 
Russia,  tried  to  take  up  his  old  life,  but  could  no 
longer  get  into  the  former  track.  Like  a  hunted 
animal,  he  wandered  from  ])lace  to  place;  he  still 
went  into  society — he  had  preserved  all  the  habits 
of  a  man  of  the  world ;  lie  could  boast  of  two  or 
three  new  conquests;  l)ut  he  no  longer  expected 
anytliing  special  of  himself,  or  of  others;  he  un- 
dertook no  enterprises.  He  grew  old,  his  hair 
turned  grey;  it  became  a  necessity  with  him  to  sit 
at  the  club,  to  get  bitterly  bored,  to  dispute  coldly 
in  bachelor  society, — which  is  well  known  to  be 
a  bad  sign.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  did  not 
dream  of  marriage.     IVn  years  passed  in  tliis 

52 


FA'l'IIKHS    AM)   (  IIILDHKN 

manner,  in  a  coloi-lrss,  Jruitkss,  swit't.  rri^litl'nllx 
swift  i'asliioii.  XowIktc  docs  time  lly  so  raj)i(lly 
as  in  Hnssia;  it  is  said  llial  it  Hies  still  rnoir 
swiftly  in  j)iis()n.  ( )\\v  day,  at  diiinci-  in  tlu-  clnb, 
Pavt'l  ]^t'tr(')\it{'li  heard  of  Printrss  H  .  .  s  dcatli. 
She  had  died  in  I'atis.  in  a  condition  hoi-dcrin^' 
:)n  insanity.  He  rose  fi-oin  the  table,  and  ])aced 
the  rooms  of  tlie  clnh  foi-  a  Umg  time,  pausing, 
as  tlion^h  rooted  to  the  spot,  beside  the  eard- 
tables,  ])nt  he  did  not  retnrn  liome  any  earher 
tlian  nsnal.  Some  time  later,  he  reeeived  a 
])aeket  addressed  to  him:  it  eontained  the  ring 
whieii  he  had  given  to  the  Prineess.  Slie  liad 
drawn  lines,  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  over  the 
sphinx,  and  had  recjnested  that  he  shonld  ])e  told 
that  the  cross  was  the  solntion  of  the  riddle. 

This  ]iaj)pened  m  the  beginning  of  184S.  at 
the  very  time  when  Nikolai  Petroviteh,  having 
lost  his  wife,  had  come  to  Petersbnrg.  Piivel 
Petroviteh  had  hardly  .seen  his  brother  since  the 
latter  had  settled  down  in  the  conntry;  Nikolai 
Petrovitch's  marriage  had  coincided  with  tlie 
verv  first  davs  of  Pavel  Petrovitch's  acciuaintance 
with  the  I'rincess.  On  his  retnrn  fi"om  abroad, 
he  had  gone  to  him.  with  the  intcjition  of  s])end- 
ing  a  con])le  of  months  u  ith  him.  of"  admiring  his 
ha])])iness,  bnt  he  had  li\ed  only  one  week  with 
him.  The  ditt'erence  in  the  sitnation  of  the  two 
])rothers  had  ])roved  to  be  too  g?-cat.  In  1 S  1-8  that 
diff'erence  was  lessened:   Nikolai  Petr6\iteh  bad 

53 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDRKX 

lost  his  wife,  Pavel  Petrovitch  had  lost  his  mem- 
ories: after  the  death  of  the  Princess,  he  tried 
not  to  think  of  her.  But  Nikolai  retained  the 
consciousness  of  a  life  which  liad  been  regularly 
sj^ent,  his  son  was  growing-  up  before  his  eyes; 
Pavel,  on  the  contrary,  a  solitary  bachelor,  had 
entered  upon  that  confused,  twilight  period,  the 
period  of  regrets  which  resemble  hopes,  of  ho})es 
which  resemble  regrets,  when  youth  is  gone,  and 
old  age  has  not  yet  come. 

This  period  was  more  difficult  for  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch than  for  any  other  man :  having  lost  his  past, 
he  had  lost  all. 

"  1  do  not  invite  thee  to  INIarino  now,"  —  Niko- 
lai Petrovitch  said  to  him  one  day  (he  had  given 
his  estate  that  name,  in  honour  of  his  wife), — 
"  thou  wert  bored  there  even  during  the  lifetime 
of  the  deceased,  but  now,  I  think,  thou  woiddst 
perish  with  irksomeness." 

"  I  was  still  stupid  and  restless  then,"  —  replied 
Pavel  Petrovitch: — "since  that  time  I  have 
calmed  down,  even  if  I  hiixe  not  grown  any  wiser. 
Now,  on  the  contrary,  if  thou  shouldst  invite  me, 
I  am  ready  to  settle  down  in  thy  house  forever." 

In  place  of  a  reply,  Nikolai  Petrovitch  em- 
braced him;  but  a  year  and  a  half  elapsed  after 
this  conversation  before  I'avel  Petrovitch  made 
up  his  mind  to  put  his  intention  into  execution. 
On  the  other  hand,  having  once  settled  down  in 
the  country,  he  did  not  again  leave  it,  even  during 

54 


FA'rin<:us  a\\)  c  iiildkkx 

tliosf  liirc-c  winUrs  wliicli  Nikolai  Pctnn-jtch 
s])eiit  ill  Pctcrshiiro-  with  his  son.  lie  hc^an  to 
read,  diicfly  in  J^nglisli:  lie-  airanged  his  whole 
life,  in  «>eiirral.  on  the  Kn^lish  |)attei-n.  i-ai-cly  met 
his  nei<>hhoin-s.  and  went  out  oidy  to  the  eleetions,' 
where  he  mostly  held  his  ton^^ne,  oidy  oceasionally 
teasing-  and  rri,i>htenin^-  Hu-  old-fashioned  «^entiy 
hy  liheral  sallies,  and  not  niakino-  approaehes  to 
the  younger  «.ienerati()?».  And  hoth  the  f'orinei- 
and  tile  latter  thought  him  a  han^hty  man;  and 
hoth  sets  of  ])eople  i-espeeted  him  for  his  distin- 
«^uislied,  aristoeratie  manners;  for  the  iiimoiii-s  of 
his  eoiiquests:  heeause  lie  dressed  \  ery  well  and 
always  oeeupied  the  ])est  room  in  the  hotel;  he- 
eause he  dined  well,  as  a  rule,  and  had  onee  even 
dined  with  \\'ellin,nton  at  Lonis  l*hilij)j)e\s;  he- 
eause he  always  earried  ahout  with  him  e\ery- 
where  a  real  silver  toilet  set,  and  a  camp  hath-tuh; 
heeause  he  emitted  an  odour  of  some  unusual, 
wonderfully  "  nohle '"  |)ei-fumes;  heeause  he 
played  whist  in  a  mastei'lv  mannei',  and  always 
lost;  and,  in  eonelusion,  they  lespeeted  him  also 
heeause  of  his  imj)eeeal)le  honesty.  The  ladies 
re<>arded  him  as  a  faseinatin^-  misanthrope,  hut 
he  did  not  eonsort  with  the  ladies.  .   .  . 

So,  now  thou  sei'st.  Kvg'eiiy,"  — said  Ai-kadw 
at  the  eonelusio!!  of  his  story,  —  "how  unjustly 
thou  jud^est  ol"  my  unelel  1  will  not  even  men- 
tion the  faet  that  he-  has  moii-  than  once  reseued 

'  .\s  Marshal  of  the  Nobility. — Thansl.vtuh. 

55 


FATIIKKS  AM)  CIIILDHKX 

my  father  from  a  catastrophe,  has  given  him 
all  his  own  money,  —  perhaps  thou  art  not 
aware  that  their  estate  has  not  been  divided, 
—  hut  he  is  glad  to  lieij)  any  one,  and,  among 
other  tilings,  he  always  stands  up  for  tlie  peas- 
ants; it  is  true  that  when  he  talks  with  them 
he  wrinkles  u})  his  face  and  inhales  eau  de 
cologne.  .  .  •" 

"  Of  course :  nerves," — interrupted  BazarofF. 

"  Perhaps,  only  he  has  a  very  kind  heart.  And 
he  is  far  from  stupid.  ^Vhat  useful  advice  he  has 
given  me  ....  especially  .  .  .  especially  about 
my  relations  with  women." 

"Aha!  He  has  burnt  himself  with  his  own 
milk,  so  he  blows  on  other  people's  water.  We 
know  all  about  that!  " 

"Well,  in  a  word,"  —  went  on  Arkady:  —  "he 
is  profoundly  unhappy,  believe  me;  it  is  a  sin  to 
despise  him." 

"  Well,  who  despises  him?  " — retorted  Ba- 
zaroif.  — "  But  I  will  say,  nevertheless,  that  a 
man  who  has  staked  his  whole  life  on  a  woman's 
love,  and,  when  that  card  was  trumped,  turned 
sour  and  lost  heart  to  such  an  extent  that  he  be- 
came incapable  of  anytliing, — such  a  man — is  not 
a  man,  but  a  male.  Thou  sayest  that  he  is  un- 
happy—  thou  knowest  best;  but  all  the  whims  have 
not  gone  out  of  him.  I  am  convinced  that  he 
seriously  regards  himself  as  a  ])ractical  man,  be- 
cause  he    reads    that    miserable    GaUffitaui   and 

56 


FA'IIIl':i<S    WD   (1I11.I)]{KX 

oiici'   a    iiioiitli    iisciics  a    j)t'asa?il    IVoiii   t'liastisi-- 

Hut  iviiifinhc'i"  his  education,  llir  ])iii()(l  in 
wliic'h   Ir'   lived,"  — icinarUcd    Arkiidy. 

"His  (.'diicatioii  :*  "  i-ctortcd  Hazarott".-  "  K\- 
crv    mail    is    hound    to    cdiicati'    liiinsclf,—  well, 

as  1  lia\c  doiK'  niysclf,   lor  (.■.\ainj)k' \\\i\ 

so  far  as  the  j)C'rio(l  is  concerned,  who  am  I  to  de- 
pend upon  that:*  Rather,  let  it  dei)end  upon  me. 
Xo.  brothel',  all  that  is  <^i-oundless  and  f'ri\()lous! 
And  what  is  their  mysterious  about  the  relations 
between  a  man  and  a  woman?  \Ve  physiologists 
know  what  those  relations  are.  Just  study  the 
anatomy  of  the  eye:  where  does  what  thou  eallest 
an  enigmatic  glance  come  from?  That  's  all  ro- 
manticism, stufi'  and  nonsense,  rot.  art.  Come 
on.  we  "(1  better  go  and  look  at  my  beetle." 

xVnd  the  two  friends  betook  themselves  to  l^a- 
Ziiroflf's  room,  in  whieh  a  eeitain  medico-surgical 
odour,  mingled  with  the  scent  of  cheap  tobacco, 
had  alreadv  contrived    to  establish   itself. 


57 


VIII 

Pavel  Petrovitch  did  not  remain  present  long 
at  the  interview  between  his  brother  and  the  man- 
ager, a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  sweet,  consumptive 
voice  and  craft v  eves,  who,  to  all  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch's  remarks,  replied,  "  Certainly  sir;  that 's  a 
fact,  sir,"  and  tried  to  make  out  that  the  peasants 
were  drunkards  and  thieves.  The  farming,  which 
had  recentl}^  been  rearranged  on  a  new  plan,  was 
squeaking  like  an  ungreased  wheel,  and  cracking 
like  home-made  furniture  fabricated  from  green 
wood.  Xikolai  Petrovitch  was  not  discouraged, 
but  he  sighed  frequently,  and  became  thoughtful : 
he  was  conscious  that  matters  would  not  go  right 
witliout  money,  and  almost  all  his  money  was  ex- 
hausted. Arkady  had  spoken  the  truth:  Pavel 
Petrovitch  had  helped  his  brother  more  than  once; 
more  than  once,  perceiving  that  he  was  strug- 
gling and  racking  his  brains  in  the  effort  to  de- 
vise a  way  of  escape,  Pavel  Petrovitch  had 
strolled  slowly  to  the  window,  and,  thrusting  his 
liands  into  his  ])ockets,  had  muttered  through  his 
teeth,  "Mais  Jc  puis  vans  donner  de  V argent," 
and  had  given  liim  money;  but  on  this  particular 
day  he  had  nothing,  and  he  preferred  to  with- 

58 


FATlIKJiS  AM)  CIIILDI^KN 

draw.  Tlic  sordid  details  ol'  raniiing-  made  iiini 
melancholy;  and,  in  addition,  it  constantly 
seemed  to  him  that  XiUoIai  IVtrovitch,  notwith- 
standing his  zeal  and  indnsliy,  did  not  take  iioid 
of  the  l)nsincss  in  the  jjiopei-  way;  althongli  he 
would  not  have  been  caj)ahle  of  |)ointing  out  to 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  precisely  wliere  he  was  in  er- 
ror. "  My  brother  is  not  sufficiently  ])ractical," 
—  he  argued  with  himself,  —  "  j)eople  cheat  him." 
Xikojjii  l*etr6vitch,  on  the  other  hand,  enter- 
tained a  lofty  o[)inion  as  to  Pjivel  I'etrovitch's 
practical  (jualities,  and  always  asked  his  advice. 
"  I  am  a  soft,  weak  man ;  I  have  spent  all  my  life 
in  the  wilds,"  — he  was  wont  to  say;  "  hut  not  for 
nothing  hast  thou  lived  so  much  with  people,  thou 
knowest  them  well :  thou  hast  the  eye  of  an  eagle." 
Pavel  Petrovitch's  only  re})ly  to  these  words  w^as 
to  turn  away:  but  lie  (lid  not  seek  to  cliange  his 
brother's  conviction. 

Leaving  Xikolai  Petrovitch  in  the  study,  he 
walked  along  the  corridoi-  which  separated  the 
front  part  of  the  house  from  the  rear  part,  and, 
reaching  a  low-browed  door,  he  paused  in 
thought,  tugged  at  his  moustache,  and  knocked. 

"  \\'h() 's  theref  Come  in,"  —  rang  out  Fe- 
nitchka's  voice. 

"  It  is  I,"  —  said  P;i\(.l  IVt  i«')\  itch,  and  opened 
the  door. 

Fenitchka  sprang  u|)  from  the  chair  on  uhii-li 
she  was  sitting  with  lier  l)ahy.  and   placing  it    in 

59 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

the  arms  of  the  little  o'irl.  wlio  iminediatelv  car- 
lied  it  out  of  the  room,  hastily  adjusted  her 
kerchief. 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  intrude,"  — hegan  Pavel  Pe- 
trovitch,  without  looking  at  her:  — "  I  merely 
wished  to  ask  you  ....  I  helieve  some  one  is 
going  to  the  town  to-daj'^  ....  order  some  green 
tea  to  be  bought  for  me." 

"  Yes,  sir," — replied  Fenitchka:— "  how  much 
do  you  order  to  be  purchased?  " 

"  Why,  half  a  pound  will  be  sufficient,  I  sup- 
pose. And  I  notice  that  you  have  made  some 
changes  here,"  —  he  added,  darting  a  swift  glance 
around,  which  glided  over  Fenitchka's  face  also. 
— "  Those  curtains,  yonder,"— he  said,  seeing 
that  she  did  not  understand  him. 

"  Yes,  sir,  the  curtains;  Xikolai  Petrovitch  was 
so  good  as  to  give  them  to  me;  but  they  have 
been  hung  this  long  time." 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  not  been  to  see  you  for  a 
long  time.  You  are  very  nicely  established  here 
now." 

"  Thanks  to  Xikolai  Petrovitch,"  —  whispered 
Fenitchka. 

"  Are  you  more  comfortable  here  than  in  your 
former  wing?"  —  inquired  Pavel  Petrovitch  po- 
litely, but  without  the  trace  of  a  smile. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  sir." 

"  Who  has  l)een  put  in  your  ])lace?  " 

"  The  laundress  lives  tliere  now." 

60 


FATITKKS    A\D   (TTILDin:X 

Ptivel  Petrovitch  relapsed  into  silence.  "  Xow 
he  will  go  away."  thouglit  Kenitehka.  Hut  he  did 
not  go  away,  and  she  stood  hefore  him,  as  though 
rooted  to  the  sj)ot,  weakly  twisting  her  fingers. 

"  AVhv  did  vou  have  vour  little  one  earried 
away;''— said  Pavel  Petnniteh,  at  last.  — '' I 
love  children:  show  it  to  nie." 

Fenitehka  hlushed  scarlet  all  over  with  confu- 
sion and  joy.  She  was  afraid  of  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch :  he  hardly  ever  spoke  to  her. 

"  Dunyasha,"  —  .she  called:  — "  hring  Mitya" 
(Fenitehka  addre.s.sed  every  one  in  the  house  as 
"you").  — '' ]iut  no,  wait.  I  must  put  a  clean 
dress  on  him.  "  —  Fenitehka  went  toward  the  door. 

"  Never  mind  ahout  that,"  — remarked  Pavel 
Petrovitch. 

"  I  will  he  hack  in  a  moment," — replied  Fe- 
nitehka. and  hastily  left  tlie  room. 

Piivel  Petrovitch  was  left  alone,  and  this  time 
he  l(K)ked  ahout  him  with  particular  attention. 
The  contracted,  low-ceiled  little  loom  in  which  he 
found  him.self  was  \eiy  clean  and  cosey.  It 
snielled  of  the  recently  painted  lloor,  of  camo- 
mile and  halm.  ^Along  the  walls  stood  chairs  with 
backs  in  the  form  oi'  lyres;  they  had  been  bought 
bv  the  late  General,  in  I'oland,  during  the  cam- 
paign;  in  one  corner  stood  a  small  l)edstead,  with 
muslin  curtains,  alongside  a  wrought-iron  che.si 
with  a  rounded  lid.    In  the  opjxisite  corner  burned 

in 


FATHERS  AND  CHTT.DRKX 

a  sliriiR'-lamj)  in  i'ront  oi'  a  large,  dark -colon  red 
image  of  St.  Nicholas  the  A\^)nder-worker;  a  tiny 
j)orcelain  egg,  suspended  from  the  halo  hy  a  red 
rihhon.  hung  on  the  saint's  hreast;  on  the 
Avindow-sills  glass  jars,  with  last  year's  preserves 
carefully  tied  up,  acbnitted  a  green  light:  on  their 
paper  lids  Fenitchka  herself  had  written  in  large 
letters:  "  gosebery."  Nikolai  Petrovitch  was 
especially  fond  of  that  preserve.  From  the 
ceiling,  on  a  long  cord,  hung  a  cage  containing 
a  bob-tailed  canary-bird;  it  twittered  and  hopped 
about  incessantly,  and  the  cage  incessantly  rocked 
and  trembled ;  grains  of  hemp-seed  fell  to  the  floor 
with  a  soft  patter.  On  the  wall  between  the  win- 
dows, over  a  small  chest  of  drawers,  hung  several 
fairly  bad  photographs  of  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  in 
various  attitudes,  made  by  itinerant  artists;  there, 
also,  hung  a  photograph  of  Fenitchka  herself, 
which  was  an  utter  failure:  some  sort  of  an  eye- 
less visage  smiled  constrainedly  out  of  the  dark 
frame,  —  and  nothing  more  could  be  distin- 
guished; and  over  Fenitchka,  Frmoloff',  in  a  felt 
cloak,  was  frowning  in  a  menacing  manner  at  the 
Caucasus  INlountains  in  the  distance,  from  be- 
neath a  silken  slipper  for  pins,  which  fell  clear 
down  on  his  brow. 

Five  minutes  elapsed.  In  the  adjoining  room 
rustling  and  whispering  were  audible.  Pavel 
Petrovitch  picked  up  from  the  chest  of  drawers  a 
greasj'  book,  an  odd  volume  of  INIasalsky's  "  The 

02 


FATIIKKS   AM)   C  IlllJ)in:\ 

Shiirp-sliDuU-rs  "  ("  Slrvcltzy  ") ,  and  liiiind 
over  u  few  pages.  .  .  .  'Vhv  door  ()])enc(l,  and 
Fenitelika  entered,  with  Mitya  in  liir  arms.  Slic 
had  dressed  liini  in  a  little  i-cd  sliirl  w  itii  <^all<)<)n 
on  tlie  eollar,  and  had  l)iMislied  liis  liair  and  \vi|)ed 
of!"  his  faee:  Ik-  hrcathcd  hea\ily.  threw  himself 
ahont  with  his  wholr  hodx  .  and  llomMshcd  his  little 
hands,  as  all  healthy  i)ai>irs  do;  i)iil  the  foppish 
little  shirt  had  taken  effeet  on  him:  an  expres- 
sion of  .satisfaetion  emanated  from  his  whole 
])lnmp  form.  Fenitehka  liad  hron^ht  her  own 
liair  into  order  also,  and  had  pnl  on  lur  keivhief 
in  the  best  ])()ssil)le  manner:  hut  siie  miyht  as  well 
have  remained  as  she  was.  ^And,  as  a  matter  of 
faet,  is  there  anytliing-  in  the  world  more  fas- 
einating"  tlian  a  yonn*^'  and  heantifnl  motlur  w  illi 
a  healthy  baby  in  her  arms? 

"  AVhat  a  ehnbhy  child,"  -  said  l';i\rl  1\- 
troviteh  eondeseendin^ly.  and  tickled  Mftya's 
double  chin  with  the  tij)  of  the  lon^'  nail  on  his 
forefinger;  the  ehild  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  canary- 
bird,  and  began   to  laugh. 

"  This  is  uncle,"  —  said  I'enitehka,  lu  nding  her 
faee  over  him,  and  locking  him  softly,  while 
Dunyjisha  (juietly  set  a  'ighted  |)astille  on  the 
window-sill,   placing  a  coj)|)cr  coin  beneath  it. 

"How  many  months  old  is  he?"  —  incpiired 
Pavel    Petrdviteh. 

Six    months:    tin-   seventh    nn)nth    will    begin 
soon,  on  the  eleventh." 

03 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  ^Von't  it  be  the  eigliTn,  Feodosya  Xiko- 
laevna?" — interposed  Dunyasha,  not  without 
timidity. 

"  No,  the  seventh;  h(nv  is  lliat  possible!  "  —  The 
cliild  crowed  again,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  chest, 
and  suddenly  grasped  his  mother's  nose  and  lip:; 
with  all  five  fingers.  —  "  The  spoiled  child," — said 
Fenitchka,  without  removing  her  face  from  his 
fingers. 

"  He  resembles  my  brother,"  —  remarked  Pave! 
Petrovitch. 

"Whom  should  he  resemble,  then?"  thought 
Fenitchka. 

"  Yes,"  —  pursued  Pavel  Petrovitch,  as  thougli 
talking  to  himself,  — ''  there  is  an  indubitable  like- 
ness."—  He  gazed  at  Fenitchka  attentively,  al- 
most sadly. 

"  This  is  uncle," — repeated  she,  in  a  whisper 
this  time. 

"Ah!  Pavel!  so  thou  art  here!" — rang  out 
Nikolai  Petrovitch's  voice  suddenly. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  hastily  wheeled  round,  and 
knit  his  brows;  but  his  brother  gazed  at  him  so 
joyfully,  so  gratefuJly,  tliat  he  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  respond  to  liini  by  a  smile. 

"  Thou  hast  a  splendid  boy," — he  said,  and 
looked  at  his  watch;  —  "  I  drop])ed  in  here  about 
my  tea " 

And,  assuming  an  indifferent  expression. 
P.'ivel  Petrovitch  immediately  left  the  room. 

64 


FATIIKirs    AND   (  IIILDKKX 

"Did  111'  come  of  liis  own  Mccoid  .^   "      Xikohii 

l\'ti'(')\  itcli  asked    l-'iiiitclika. 

Yes,  s'w:  lie  knocked  and  enteixl." 

tN'ell,  and  lias  n't    Arkjislia  Ikiii   to  see  tiiee 
■J  i> 
again  f 

"  No.  ^^'()^d(l  iTt  it  he  l)ettei-  lor  ine  to  i-emovc 
to  tlie  wiiio,  Nikolai  IVtrovitcli  i*  " 

"Why  so?" 

"  J  am  wonderino-  whctlicr  il  would  not  he  hct- 
ter,  at  first." 

"  X  .  .  .  .  no,"  ai-tiv»ilate(l  Nikolai  Petrovitch 
with  hesitation,  and  luhhed  his  forehead.  —  "  It 
ouglit  to  have  hecn  done  hefoiv.  .  .  Good  morn- 
ing, thou  fat  little  hall,"  — he  said,  with  sudden 
animatioi:,  and  approaching  the  hahy.  he  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek;  then  he  hent  down  a  little, 
and  pressed  his  lips  on  Fenitchka's  hand,  which 
shone  white  as  milk  against  Mftya's  httle  i-ed 
shirt. 

"  Xikohii  Petrovitch!  what  are  vou  doin"!'" 
—  she  stammered,  and  dropped  her  eyes,  then 
quietly  raised  them  again.  .  .  .  'IMie  exj)ression 
of  her  eyes  was  charming  when  she  ga/ed,  as  il 
were,  from  heneath  her  hrows,  with  an  afl'ection- 
ate  and  somewhat  stti])id  smile. 

Xikohii  I'etrovitch  had  heeome  ac(|uainted 
with  Fenitchka  in  the  foll(?\\ing  manner.  One 
day,  three  years  hefoi-e  this  time,  he  had  heen 
ohliged  to  j)ass  the  night  at  a  j)osting-station  in  a 
distant  j)r()vincial  town.     lie  had  heiii  pleasantly 

05 


FATITKKS   AM)  CHILDREN 

surprised  at  the  cleanliness  of  tlie  n^oni  which  was 
assigned  to  him,  and  the  freslmess  of  the  betl- 
linen:  ''Is  not  the  landlady  a  (xernian!'  "  flashed 
through  his  mind;  but  it  ai)peared  that  the  house- 
wife was  a  liussian,  a  woman  of  flftv,  neatly 
dressed,  with  comely,  sensible  face  and  dignifled 
speech,  vie  chatted  with  her  over  his  tea;  she 
pleased  him  greatly.  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  at  that 
time,  had  just  moved  into  his  new  manor-house, 
and,  not  wishing  to  keep  serfs  about  him,  was  on 
the  lookout  for  hired  servants;  the  landladj%  on 
her  side,  complained  of  the  small  number  of  trav- 
ellers in  the  town,  of  hard  times;  he  proposed  to 
her  that  she  should  enter  his  house  in  the  capacity 
of  housekeeper;  she  accepted.  Her  husband  J'lad 
been  long  dead,  and  had  left  her  with  only  a 
daughter,  Fenitchka.  Two  weeks  later,  Arina 
Savishna  (such  was  the  name  of  the  new  house- 
keeper) arrived  in  company  with  her  daughter 
at  JNIarino,  and  established  herself  in  the  wing. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch's  choice  turned  out  to  be  a 
happy  one.  Arina  introduced  order  into  the 
house.  Of  Fenitchka,  anIio  was  already  seven- 
teen  years  old,  no  one  spoke,  and  it  was  rarely 
that  am'  one  saw  her:  she  lived  quietly,  modestly, 
and  only  on  Sundays  did  Nikolai  Petrovitch  jjer- 
ceive  in  the  parish  church,  somewhere  on  one  side, 
the  delicate  ])rofile  of  her  rather  })ale  face.  INIore 
than  a  year  passed  in  this  manner. 

One  morning,  xVrina  presented  herself  in  his 

G6 


FATIIKUS  AM)  CIIILDKKX 

study,  and  al'tcr  niakin<4'  him  a  low  rcvcrt'iicr,  ac- 
cording to  licr  wont,  slie  asktd  iiini  wlRtlitr  he 
could  not  help  lier  thiughtcr,  wlio  had  got  a  spark 
from  the  stove  in  htr  eve.  Xikohii  Petrovitch, 
like  all  stay-at-homes,  occupied  himsell'  with  med- 
ical treatment,  and  had  even  hought  a  honueo- 
pathic  medicine-chest.  lie  immediately  ordered 
Arina  to  hring  the  sufferer.  On  leai-ning  that 
the  master  wanted  her,  Fenitehka  w  as  seized  with 
a  violent  fit  of  timidity,  hut  she  followed  her 
mother.  Nikolai  Petrdvitch  led  her  to  the  win- 
dow, and  grasped  her  head  with  hoth  hands.  Ai'- 
ter  taking  a  good  look  at  her  reddened  and 
swollen  eye,  he  ])rescribed  an  eye-wash,  which  he 
himself  compounded  on  the  spot,  and,  tearing 
up  his  handkerchief,  he  showed  her  how  she  must 
bathe  it;  Fenitehka  heard  him  out,  and  started  to 
leave  the  room.  "  Come,  kiss  the  master's  hand, 
thou  stu])id  creature,"  said  iVrina  to  her.  Nikolai 
Petrdvitch  did  not  give  lier  his  hand.  Init,  l)eeom- 
ing  confused,  he  kissed  her  n\\  hei-  howcd  head. 
where  the  hair  i)arted. 

Fenitchka's  eye  soon  got  well,  but  the  impres- 
sion which  she  had  made  upon  Nikolai  I'etnnitch 
did  not  soon  jjass  away.  \"isions  of  that  j)ure, 
tender,  timidly  uplifted  face  pursued  him:  he  felt 
beneath  his  ])alms  that  soft  hair:  In-  beheld  those 
innocent,  slightly  })arted  lips,  from  l)etween 
whieli  the  |)eai-ly  teeth  gieauKd  moistly  in  the 
sunlight.      lie    ))egan,    with    great    attention,    to 

<J7 


FATITEKS  xVXD  CHII.DREN 

watch  her  in  church;  he  tried  to  enter  into  con- 
versation with  her.  At  first  she  was  shv  of  him, 
and  one  day,  toward  evening,  when  she  encoun- 
tered him  on  a  narrow  path  made  h}'  pedestrians 
tliroiigli  a  rye-field,  she  retreated  into  tlie  tall, 
tliick  rye,  overrun  with  wormwood  and  corn- 
flowers, simply  for  the  sake  of  escaping  his  eyes. 
He  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  little  head  athwart 
the  golden  network  of  the  grain-ears,  whence  she 
was  peeping  like  a  small  wild  animal,  and  called 
out  to  her  pleasantly: 

"  Good  day,  Fenitchka!    I  don't  bite!  " 
"  Good   day,"  —  she   whis^^ered,   without   quit- 
ting her  ambush. 

Little  by  little  she  began  to  grow  accustomed 
to  him;  but  she  was  still  timid  in  liis  presence 
when,  suddenly,  her  mother  Arina  died  of  tlie 
cholera.  AVhere  was  Fenitchka  to  go?  She  had 
inherited  from  her  mother  a  love  of  orderliness, 
good  judgment,  and  dignity;  but  she  was  so 
young,  so  isolated;  Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  so  kind 
and  discreet.  .  .  .  There  is  no  need  to  narrate 

the  rest 

"  So  my  brotlier  just  walked  into  thy  room?  " 
— Nikolai  Petrovitch  asked  her.  — "  He  knocked 
and  walked  in?  " 
1  es,  sn-, 
"  Well,  that 's  good.     Let  me  toss  INIitya." 
iVnd  Nikolai  Petrovitch  began  to  toss  him  up 
almost  to  the  very  ceiling,  to  the  great  delight 

68 


FATITKKS    A\l)  ('TTIl.l)KEX 

of  ihv  hoy,  .-iimI  to  llic  no  small  anxiety  of  [\\v 
nintJR'i-,  who,  at  every  uj)\vai-(l  flight,  sti-ctchcd 
out  Irt  hands  toward  his  hare  k-^s. 

Hnt  IM\cl  Pftrovitch  returned  to  his  ele<»ant 
study,  hun<4'  with  handsome  |)aj)ei"  of  a  grey  tone, 
witli  weaj)()ns  sns|)ended  on  a  motley-hued  l*er- 
sian  rug,  with  w alnut-wood  furniture  upholstered 
in  (hirk-gi'een  inoek  Nchit,  a  hook-case  in  l{en- 
aissanee  style  of  nnli(|ne  dark  oak,  hronze  stat- 
uettes on  the  magnificent  writing-tahle,  and  a 
fii'cplacc.  .  .  .  lie  Hung  himself  on  the  couch, 
placed  his  hands  under  his  head,  and  le- 
inaincd  niotioidess,  staring  at  the  ceiling  al- 
most with  despair.  Whether  it  was  that  he  wished 
to  conceal  from  the  very  walls  what  was  taking 
phicc  on  his  face,  or  from  sour^  other  cause,  at 
all  events,  he  rose,  dro])])ed  the  heavy  window- 
curtains,  and  again  flung  himself  on  the  couch. 


C9 


IX 

Ox  that  same  day,  BazarofF  also  made  accjuain- 
tance  with  Fenitchka.  He  was  walking  about 
the  garden  with  Arkady,  and  explaining  to  liini 
why  certain  young  trees,  especially  the  oaks,  had 
not  taken  root. 

"  You  ought  to  set  out  as  many  silver  poplars 
as  possible  here,  and  firs,  and  lindens,  if  you  like, 
after  adding  black  loam.  That  arbour,  yonder, 
has  thriven  well,"— he  added:  —  "  because  acacias 
and  lilacs  are  good  fellows— they  require  no  nurs- 
ing.   Ba!  why,  there  is  some  one  there." 

Fenitchka  was  sitting  in  the  arbour  with  Dun- 
yasha  and  ^litya.  Bazaroff  came  to  a  halt,  and 
Arkady  nodded  to  Fenitchka  as  to  an  old  ac- 
(juaintance. 

"  AVho  is  that?  "  —  BazarofF  asked  him,  as  soon 
as  they  had  passed  on.  —  "  What  a  pretty 
woman!  " 

"  Of  whom  art  thou  speaking?  " 

"  It 's  plain  enough;  tliere  was  only  one  pretty 
woman." 

Arkadv,  not  witliout  embarrassment,  ex- 
plained  to  him,  in  brief  words,  who  Fenitchka 
was. 

"Aha!  "-said   Bazaroff :—"  thy   fatlier,   evi- 

70 


FATHERS   AM)  CIIILUREX 

(It'iitly,  knows  a  ^ood  tl»iii*>-  wluii  he  sees  it.  And 
1  like  thy  rather,  I  swear  I  do!  He's  a  fine  fel- 
low. Hnt  I  must  sera|)e  ae(jnaintanee,"  he 
added,  and  wtiit  hack  to  the  ai'l)on!". 

"Kvgeny!  '  —  Arkady  sjiouted  alter  hini,  in 
alarm:      "  he  nif)re  caidions.  for  (iod's  sake.' 

"Don't  iiet  I'xeited,"  said  Ha/Jiroff :  — "  T  'in 
a  j)erson  of  e\j)ei"ienee,  I  '\e  li\ed  in  cities." 

.\|)|)i()aehin«^'  T'enitehka,  he  j)nlle(l  ofi'  his  eap. 
Permit  nie  to  introdnee  niyseli",  "  —  he  hegan, 
with  a  j)olite  how:  — "  1  in  the  friend  of  iVrkiidy 
Xikolaeviteh.  and  a  man  of  peace." 

Fenitehka  half-rose  from  the  heneh,  and  gazed 
at  him  in  silence. 

"  \\'hat  a  mai>nifieent  bahv!"  —  went  on  Ra- 
zaroff.  — "  Don't  he  alarmed,  I  have  never  cast 
the  evil  eve  on  anv  one  vet.  What  makes  his 
cheeks  so  red?     Is  he  cutting  his  teeth?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  — said  Fenitehka:  — "  he  has  cut 
four  teeth  already,  and  now  his  gums  have 
swollen  up  again." 

"  Show  me  ....  come,  don't  be  afraid,  I  'm  a 
doctor.  " 

Haziiroff  took  the  eiiild  in  his  arms,  and,  to  the 
astonishment  of  T'enitehka  and  Dunyasha,  it  dis- 
played no  resistance,  and  was  not  frightened. 

"  T  see.  T  see.  ...  It  s  nothing;  everything  is 
all  right :  he  "s  going  to  ha\e  large  teeth.  If  any- 
thing ha[)|)ens,  let  me  know.  .And  are  yon  well 
yourself!*  " 

71 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDUEX 

"  Yes,  thank  God." 

"  Thank  God  — tliat  is  the  best  of  all.  And 
you?  "  —  added  Ea/aroff,  turning  to  Dunyasha. 

Dunyasha,  a  girl  who  was  very  prim  in  tlie 
rooms  of  her  mistress,  and  a  great  giggler  else- 
where, only  snorted  by  way  of  rei)ly. 

"  AVell,  tliat  's  fine.  Here  's  your  hero  for 
you." 

Fenitchka  took  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  How  quietly  he  sat  with  you!  " — she  said,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"  All  children  behaye  quieth'-  with  me,"— re- 
phed  BazaroiF,  —  "  I  know^  the  trick." 

"  Children  feel  who  loves  them," — remarked 
Dunyasha. 

"  That  is  true,"— assented  Fenitchka.  "  Here 
is  Mitya, — he  will  not  let  some  people  take  liim 
in  tlieir  arms  on  any  terms." 

'  "  And  will  he  come  to  me?  "—asked  Arkady, 
who,  after  standing  for  a  time  a  little  aloof,  had 
now  approached  the  arbour. 

He  allured  Mitya  to  liim;  but  JNIitya  flung  his 
head  back  and  began  to  scream,  which  greatly 
mortified  Fenitchka. 

"  Anotlier  time — w^hen  he  has  managed  to  get 
used  to  me," — said  Arkady  condescendingly,  and 
the  two  friends  went  tlieir  way. 

"What  the  deuce  is  her  name?" — inquired 
Bazaroff. 

"  Fenitclika  ....  Feodosya," — replied  Arkady. 

72 


FATIIKKS    AM)   (IIILDl^KX 

"  ^Vnd  liir  pationyiiiit':'  T  must  know  tliat 
also." 

Xikolat'x  iia." 

"  Bene.  What  I  like  alxxit  Ikt  is  tliat  she  docs 
not  get  too  iniK'h  cinl)arrasse(k  Any  one  else 
would.  j)rol)ahly.  fondeiiin  that  in  lier.  W'liat 
nonsense!  what  is  there  to  he  enil)arrassed 
alxMit:*  She  is  a  mother  — well,  and  she  is  in  the 
ritrht." 

"  She  is  in  the  ri<ilit,"  — remarked  .Arkady,— 
'  hut  there  is  ni\-   fatliei- " 

"  He  is  right  too,"  — interrupted  l^azaroff. 

"  Well,  no,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Evidently,  an  extra  heir  is  not  to  our  taste!  " 

"  Art  not  thou  ashamed  to  ])resn])])ose  sucli 
thoughts  in  me!"  — ])ut  in  Arkady,  with  heat.— 

It  is  not  from  that  |)()inl  of  \  iew  that  I  irgard 
my  lather  as  in  the  wi-ong.  1  think  he  ought  to 
marry  her." 

"  Khe-he!  "-said     Ha/arofi'    ealmly.  -   '  How 

magnanimous  we  aie!     Thou  still  attrihutest  sig- 

nifieanee  to  marriage;  I   had  not  ex])ecte(l  that 

from  thee." 

"The  f'rit'iids  adxaneed  se\(,ial  |)aees  in  silence. 

"  1  have  seen  all  thy  fathci-'s  outfit.""  -  he- 
gan  lia/aroft'  again.  "  The  cattle  aw  poor, 
and  tlie  horses  arc  l)i-okcn-down.  'I'lic  huildings, 
also,  arc  pretty  had:  the  workmen  ai'c  arrant 
idlers;  and  the  o\  erseei' is  cillK  i  a  I  onl  oi- a  I'ascal; 
T  ]iave  not  yet  Ihorouglilx   made  out  which."" 

78 


FATHERS  xVND  CHILDREN 

"  Thou  art  severe  to-day,  Evgeny  Vasilie- 
vitch." 

"  And  the  good-natured  peasants  cheat  thy 
father,  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  Thou 
knowest  the  adage :  '  The  Russian  peasant  will 
fool  even  God  himself.'  " 

"  I  am  beginning  to  agree  with  my  uncle," — 
remarked  Arkady, — "  tliou  certainly  hast  a  bad 
opinion  of  the  Russians." 

"  That 's  no  great  matter!  The  only  good 
point  about  the  Russian  man  is,  that  he  has  a  very 
bad  opinion  of  himself.  The  important  thing 
is  that  twice  two  makes  four,  and  that  the  rest 
is  all  nonsense." 

"  And  is  nature  nonsense? " — said  Arkady, 
gazing  thoughtfully  far  away,  across  the  mottled 
fields,  beautifullv  and  softlv  illuminated  bv  the 
sun,  which  was  already  near  to  setting. 

"  And  nature,  also,  is  nonsense,  in  the  sense  in 
which  thou  understandest  it.  Nature  is  not  a 
temple,  but  a  workshop,  and  man  is  a  workman 
therein." 

Tlie  slow  sounds  of  a  violoncello  floated  to  them 
from  the  house  at  thai  moment. 

Some  one  was  playing  with  feeling,  altliough 
with   an   inexperienced  hand,    Schubert's   "  Ex 
pectation,"  and  the  sweet  melody  poured  forth 
on  the  air  like  honey. 

"Who's  that?"  —  ejaculated  BazarofF  in 
amazement. 

74. 


IW  rilKKS    AM)   (HII. DUKN 

''  Tliat  is  my  iMtlu  r." 

"Docs  thy  latlicr  play  on  the  violoncello^" 

"  Ves." 

"  Why.  how  old  is  Ihy  lather^' 

"  For'ty-foiir." 

Bazarofr  siuldciily  l)uisl  into  loud  laughter. 

"  AN'hat  ai't  thou  lau«ihin*i  at?" 

"  T'^iH)!!  my  word  I  at  the  a^e  of  i'oity-four,  a 
man,  j)atcrramilias,  in  the  *  *  *  district,  phiys  on 
the  \  ioloncello!  " 

Bazaroft'  continued  to  lau<^h;  hut  xVrkady,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  w()rshi])ped  his  teacher, 
did  not  e\  ('!i  smile  on  this  occasion. 


76 


About  a  fortnight  passed.  Life  in  JNIarino 
flowed  on  in  its  usual  current:  Arkady  led  the 
life  of  a  Syharite,  Bazaroff'  worked.  Every  one 
in  the  house  had  got  accustomed  to  him,  to  his 
careless  manners,  to  his  uncomplicated  and  ah- 
rupt  speeches.  Fenitclika,  in  particular,  had  be- 
come so  familiar  with  him  that  once  she  ordered 
him  to  be  awakened  at  night:  ^Iitya  had  been 
seized  with  convulsions;  and  he  came,  as  was  his 
wont,  half -jesting,  half -yawning,  sat  with  her  a 
couple  of  hours,  and  relieved  the  baby.  On  the 
other  hand,  Pavel  Petrovitch  hated  Bazaroff" 
with  all  the  powers  of  his  soul :  he  considered  him 
proud,  arrogant,  a  cynic,  a  plebeian;  he  had  a 
suspicion  that  Bazaroff"  did  not  respect  him,  that 
he  almost  despised  him— him,  Pavel  Kirsanoff"! 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  afraid  of  the  young 
"  nihilist,"  and  had  doubts  as  to  the  advantage 
of  his  influence  on  Arktidy :  but  he  liked  to  listen 
to  him,  he  liked  to  be  ])resent  at  his  ])liysical  and 
chemical  experiments  .  .  Bazaroff"  liad  brought 
a  microsco])e  witli  him,  and  busied  liimself  with 
it  for  hours  together.  The  servants,  also,  became 
attached  to  him,  althougli  he  jeered  at  them:  they 

76 


FA'l'IIKHS    AM)   C  IIIL1)I{K.\ 

iVll  llial,  iu'\  ctIIkIcss,  lie-  was  lluir  hiothtr,  not 
a  lordly  master.  Diinyiislia  was  i'ond  of  ni^>;'lin^ 
with  liiiii,  and  cast  (>l>li(|ii( ,  sif^iiificaiit  n'laiuvs  at 
liim  as  sIk'  flitted  jiasl  like  "  .i  snipe"":  j'ititi-.  a 
man  in  the  hi»^'hest  (k'^^i'ee  eoneeited  and  slupid. 
with  strained  furrows  I'oreNei- on  his  hi-ow.  a  nian 
wliose  sole  merit  lay  in  thi'  I'ael  thai  hc'  liad  a 
polite  aspeet,  read  l)y  spelling'  out  the  words,  and 
f're(|uent]y  cleaned  his  eoat  with  a  hrush  —  lie,  also, 
smiled  and  i)eamed  as  soon  as  IJazaroff  direeted 
his  attention  to  him:  the  house-servants'  hrats  ran 
after  the  "  doetur  "  like  j)ui)i)ies.  Old  Prokofiteh 
was  the  only  one  who  did  not  like  him.  served  him 
his  food  at  tahle  with  a  «;rim  aspeet.  called  him 
a  ■  knacker  "  and  a  "  swindler,"  and  asserted 
that  he,  with  his  side-whiskers,  was  a  regular  j)i<^' 
in  a  i)ush.  l'rok(')titeh  was,  in  his  way,  as  much  of 
an  aristocrat  as  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

'i'he  hest  days  in  the  year  arrived  — the  early 
days  of  June.  The  weather  was  fine;  it  is  true 
that  the  eiioleia  was  threatenin*''  a<>ain  at  a  dis- 
tance. l)ut  the  inhahitants  of  the  *  *  *  Govern- 
ment had  already  got  used  to  its  visitations.  Ha- 
zjiroff  ro.se  very  eai'ly.  and  went  oil"  two  oi-  three 
versts.  not  foi*  a  walk  lie  could  not  endui'c  to 
walk  w  ithout  an  ohject  hut  to  collect  herhs  and 
insects.  Sometimes  he  took  Ai-kady  with  him 
On  the  way  home,  they  gi-ncially  got  into  a  dis- 
p'ute.  and  Arkady  was  generally  worsted,  al- 
though he  talked  moi'c  than  his  eonnade. 

77 


FATHERS  AXD  CHILDREN 

Out'  day  thev  were  very  late,  for  some  reason; 
Nikolai  Petroyitch  ^yent  out  into  the  garden  to 
meet  them,  and  \yhen  he  got  on  a  le\  el  \\'\\\\  the 
arhoin-  he  suddenly  lieard  the  swift  footsteps  and 
the  yoices  of  the  two  young  men.  They  were 
A\'alking  on  tlie  otlier  side  of  the  arhour,  and  could 
not  see  him. 

"  Thou  art  not  sufficiently  well  ac(juainted  with 
my  father,"  —  Arkady  was  saying. 

Nikolai  Petroyitch  concealed  himself. 

"  Thy  father  is  a  nice  fellow,"  — said  Bazaroff, 
— "  but  he  's  a  man  who  is  behind  the  times,^  his 
song  is  sung." 

Nikolai  Petroyitch  lent  an  ear.  .  .  .  Ai'kady 
made  no  repl\^ 

The  man  who  was  "  beliind  the  times  "  stood 
motionless  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  slowly 
wended  his  way  homeward. 

"  Day  before  yesterday  I  saw  him  reading 
Pushkin," — went  on  BazaroiF.  ..."  Please  ex- 
plain to  him  that  he  ought  not  to  do  that.  He 
is  n't  a  boy,  tliou  knowest :  it 's  time  for  him  to 
fling  aside  all  that  twaddle.  The  idea  of  being  a 
romanticist  at  the  ])resent  day!  Giye  him  some- 
thing practical  to  read." 

"  What  ouglit  T  to  giye  liim? "  —  asked 
Arkfidy. 

"  Why,  Brucliner's  '  Stoff  und  Kraft,'  1  think, 
as  a  starter." 

1  The  equivalent  of  "a  back  number."— Tii a nslator. 

78 


FATHKHS   AM)   CIIILDHKX 

"  1  think  so  niyst'lf,"  —  reinarktd  Arkady  a|)- 
proviii^^ly.  "  'Stof!'  nnd  Kraft  '  is  written  in 
popular  laii«>'na<>i' "" 

"Sec  now,  liow  tlion  and  I/' -said  \ikol;ii 
Petrovitch,  alter  dinner  on  tliat  same  day,  to  liis 
brother,  as  he  sat  in  liis  study:  — "  ha\e  I'allen  into 
the  ranks  of  the  men  behind  the  times,  our  son^ 
is  snng.  ^Velk  what  of  tliatf  Pei'haps  Hazarof!' 
is  right:  but  1  am  hurt.  I  must  confess:  I  had 
hoped,  ])recisely  at  this  time,  to  <^et  into  close  and 
friendly  relations  with  Arkady,  but  it  turns  out 
that  1  have  lag'^ed  behind,  he  has  «>one  ahead, 
and  we  cannot  understand  each  other." 

"But  has  he  <>()ne  ahead;'  .And  in  what  wav 
is  he  so  «>reatly  different  from  us:*"  exclaimed 
Pa\el  Petnniteh  imi)atiently.  — "  It  's  that  signor 
who  has  put  all  that  into  his  head.  I  hate  that 
miserable  medical  student:  in  n)y  opinion,  he  is 
sim))ly  a  charlatan:  I  am  convinced  that  he  has 
not  got  very  tar  in  j)hysics,  e\en  with  all  his 
frogs." 

"No,  brother,  do  not  say  that:  Ha/aroff  is 
clever  and  learned." 

"And  what  repulsive  conceit!"  interrupted 
Pavel  IV'trovitch  again. 

"Yes,"-  remarked  Nikolai  I'etrovitch:  —  "he 
is  conceited.  Hut,  evidently,  that  cannot  be  dis- 
pen.sed  with:  o?dy,  this  is  what  I  cannot  under- 
stand. i\})parently,  I  am  doing  everything,  in 
order  not  to  be  left  behind  the  age:  1  have  estab- 

71) 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

lislied  my  peasants,  I  have  set  up  a  farm,  so  that 
I  am  even  spoken  of  tliroughoiit  the  Govern- 
ment as  a  '  red/  I  i-ead,  I  study,  —  in  general, 
I  strive  to  keep  up  Nvitli  contemporary  require- 
ments,—  but  tliev  say  that  my  song  is  sung.  And 
I  am  beginning,  brother,  to  tliink  myself  that  it 
is  sung." 

"AVhy  so?" 

"  This  is  why.  To-day  I  was  sitting  and  read- 
ing Pushkin.  ...  I  remember  that  1  had  hap- 
pened upon  '  The  Gipsies.' . .  All  at  once,  Arkady 
came  up  to  me,  and  in  silence,  with  such  affec- 
tionate compassion  on  his  face,  took  the  book 
away  from  me  softly,  as  from  a  child,  and  laid 
before  me  another,  a  German  book  .  .  .  smiled, 
and  went  away,  carrying  Pushkin  with  liim." 

"  You  don't  sa\'  so!  And  what  book  diil  he 
give  thee?  " 

"  This  one." 

And  Nikolai  Petrovitch  drew  from  the  rear 
pocket  of  his  coat  Bruchner's  very  renowned 
j)amphlet,  in  the  ninth  edition. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  turned  it  over  in  his  hands. — 
"  H'm!  "—he  muttered.  — "  Arkady  Nikolaevitch 
is  attending  to  thy  education.  Well,  and  hast 
thou  tried  to  read  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  and  what  was  the  result?  " 

"  Either  T  am  stupid,  or  all  this  is— nonsense. 
—  It  must  be  that  T  am  stu])id." 

80 


FATITKKS   AM)  C  IIII.DHKX 

"  lint  tlioii  hast  not  roi'/^ottiii  tliy  ( ieniiaii  ?  "  — 
asked  Pavel  Petroviteli. 

"  I  understand  (ierniaii.  " 

iVf»-ain  Pa\-el  Pcti-cnitcli  turned  the  ])0()k  ()\er 
in  his  hands,  and  east  a  sidilon^-  olancc  at  his 
hrotlier.     lioth  maintained  sik*nee. 

'N^es,  ])y  the  way,"  — hegan  Nikohii  Petrd- 
viteh,  hein^',  e\  idintly.  desirous  of  ehangin^r  the 
eonversation,  — "  1  ha\e  reeeived  a  letter  from 
Kolyazin." 

"From  Matvyei  fhteli^' 

"  Yes.  He  has  eome  to  *  *  *  to  inspect  the 
Government.  He  has  hecome  a  big-wig  now,  and 
writes  to  me  that,  as  a  rehition,  he  wishes  to  see  us, 
and  he  invites  thee  and  me  and  ^Vrkady  to  tlie 
town." 

"  Wilt  thou  go?  "-asked  Pavel  Petroviteh. 

"No;-and  thou?" 

■'  And  I  shall  not  go,  either.  What  do  1  want 
to  drag  myself  fifty  versts  for,  to  eat  potato-Hour 
pudding.  Mathieu  wants  to  exhibit  himself  to 
us  in  all  his  glory.  Devil  take  him!  the  guberna- 
torial ineense  will  be  enough  for  him;  he'll  get 
along  without  us.  iVnd  a  l*rivy  CounciHor  is  not 
sueh  a  great  dignitary,  after  all!  If  I  had  re- 
mained in  the  .service,  if  I  had  gone  on  tugging 
away  at  that  .stupid  hauling-eollar,  I  should  have 
l)een  an  adjutant-general  by  this  time.  And  thou 
and  I   are  ])eople  who  ai-e  behind   the  tinu^s.  to 

])OOt." 

81 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  Yes,  brother,  evidently  it  is  time  for  us  to 
order  our  eoffins,  and  cross  our  hands  upon  our 
breasts  for  the  grave," — remarked  Nikolai  Pe- 
trovitch,  with  a  sigh. 

"  AVell,  I  shall  not  give  in  so  promptly,"  — 
muttered  his  brother.  —  "  We  shall  have  a  fight  yet 
with  that  medical  man,  I  foresee  that." 

The  figlit  took  place  that  very  day,  at  evening 
tea.  Pavel  Petrovitch  entered  the  drawing-room 
all  read}'^  for  the  fray,  irritated  and  with  his  mind 
made  up.  He  was  merely  awaiting  a  pretext  in 
order  to  hurl  himself  upon  tlie  enemy,  but  for  a 
long  time,  no  pretext  presented  itself.  BazarofF, 
in  general,  had  little  to  say  in  the  presence 
of  "the  old  Kirsanoff  s "  (tliat  was  what  he 
called  the  two  brothers),  but  on  that  evening 
he  felt  out  of  sorts,  and  gulped  down  cu]) 
after  cup  in  silence.  Pavel  Petrovitch  was  all 
afire  with  impatience;  at  last  his  desire  was 
realised. 

The  conversation  turned  upon  one  of  the  neigh- 
bouring landed  ])r()prietors.  —  "  Rubl^ish,  a  trasliy, 
would-be  little  aristocrat,"  indifferently  re- 
marked BazarofF,  wlio  had  met  him  in  Peters- 
burg. 

"  Permit  me  to  ask  y(ni,"  — began  IMvel  Petro- 
vitch, and  his  lips  quivered:  — "  Acrorchng  to 
vour  ideas,  do  tlie  woi-ds  '  rubbish  '  and  '  aristo- 
crat '  signify  one  and  liic  same  thing?  " 

"  I  said  '  trasliy.  woiild-bc  little  aristocrat,'  "  — 

82 


FA'illKKS   AM)  (  rilLDHKX 

.s;ii(l    Ha/arofV,   la/.ily  swallowing-  a  nioiillifiil  of 
leu. 

"  Kxacth'  so,  sir:  Imt  1  assuiiic  lliat  nou  hold 
the  suiiR"  opinion  t'onc-cininw-  1|r'  ai'islocrats  that 
you  do  concern i no-  the  trashy,  would-hc  little  aris- 
tocrats. I  consider  it  my  dnty  to  inform  you  that 
I  do  not  share  that  \  iiw  .  I  taki-  the  liherty  of  say- 
ino-  that  e\i'i'y  one  knows  me  to  he  a  lihei'al  man 
and  one  who  loves  j)r()grcss;  hut.  |)recisely  I'oi-  that 
reason,  I  respect  the  aristocrats  — the  genuine 
ones.  Reniemher,  my  dear  sir  "  (at  these  words, 
Ra/iirofl"  I'aised  his  eyes  to  Pa\'el  Petrovitch)  — 
"  remember,  my  dear  sir,"  he  rej)eated,  with  ex- 
asperation:—"  the  Knolish  aristocrats.  They  do 
not  abate  one  iota  of"  their  rights,  and  therefore 
they  respect  the  riiihts  of  others:  they  demand 
the  fulfilment  of  obli^-ations  toward  themselves, 
and  therefore  they  themselves  fulfil  tJicir  duties. 
'Vhv  aristocrac\-  has  «^•i^('n  freedom  to  Kn"land, 
and   it   maintains  it." 

We've  heard  that  tune  a  «»reat  many  times," 
—  retorted  Ha/aroft':—  "  but  what  are  vou  under- 
taking  to  pro\e  by  thisf  " 

"  By  this  I  am  imdei'taking  to  prove,  mv  dear 
sir  "  (when  Pavel  Pelrcnitcb  was  angi-y.  he  inten- 
tionally said  ■'  ('ftim  ""  and  "  eflo,"  '  although  he 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  grammai"  does  not 
admit  such  wdrds.      In  this  freak,  the  relics  of  a 

Instead  of  :  r'h>  (this)  and  ///;/» (  hy  this)  — /.»'.,  ciiiployinjr  the  forms 
ill  us<-  iiMiiiii>c  the  peaMints.      'rH  \  ssi.a  ion. 

H'.i 


FATHERS   AND  CHILDREN 

tradition  of  the  epoch  of  Akxaiuler  manifested 
itself.  Tlie  bi«'-\vigs  of  that  time,  on  rare  occa- 
sions, when  talking"  in  their  native  tongue,  were 
in  the  habit  of  using,  some  efto,  others  ea:lito:  as 
much  as  to  say:  "  We  are  thorough-going  Rus- 
sians, and,  at  the  same  time,  Ave  are  grandees  who 
are  permitted  to  scorn  rules  of  school")  — "by  thi.s 
[cfthn']  I  mean  to  prove  that,  without  a  sense  of 
one's  own  dignity, without  respect  for  one's  self,— 
and  in  the  aristocrat  these  sentiments  are  devel- 
oped,— there  is  no  stable  foundation  for  the  pub- 
lic ..  .  bien  public  .  .  .  the  social  structure.  The 
individuality,  my  dear  sir,  — that  is  the  principal 
thing:  the  human  individuality  must  be  strong 
as  a  rock,  for  on  it  everything  is  erected.  I  know 
very  well,  for  example,  that  you  see  fit  to  regard 
as  ridiculous  mv  habits,  mv  toilet,  mv  cleanli- 
ness,  to  sum  it  u]):  but  all  that  proceeds  from  a 
sense  of  self-res])ect,  from  a  sense  of  duty, — yes, 
sir,  yes,  sir,  of  duty.  1  live  in  tlie  country,  in  the 
wilds,  but  I  do  not  neglect  myself,  I  respect  tht 
man  in  myself." 

"  Pardon  me,  Pavel  Petrovitch,"  —  said  Ba- 
zarofF:  — "  here  you  are,  respecting  yourself,  and 
sitting  with  folded  hands:  where  is  the  good  of 
that  for  the  bieu  j)i(J)Ii('/  You  would  do  the  same 
thing,  even  if  you  did  not  res])ect  yourself." 

Pavel  Petrovitch  turned  pallid.  — "  That  is  an 
entirely  different  question.  I  am  not  in  the  least 
bound  to  explain  to  you,  now,  why  I  sit  with 


FATllKUS   AM)   (  IIILDHKN 

loKkd  hands,  as  you  arc  pleased  to  express  your 
sell".  I  iiKTily  w  isli  to  say  that  aristocracy  is  a 
principle,  and  oidy  innnoral  or  i'rivolous  jjcoplc 
can  li\e  in  onr  day  without  pi-inciples.  1  said 
that  to  Ai'kadx'  the  day  al'Ur  his  arrival,  and  1 
now  repeat  it  to  you      Is  not  lliat  so,  Nikolai?" 

Nikolai  Peti'6\  ilch  nodded  his  head. 

"  Aristocracy,  liheralisui,  ])ro^ress,  principles," 
—  Bazaroff  was  savin*^  jn  the  nieautinie:  — "  when 
you  come  to  thiuL'  of  it,  how  many  forei<»n  .... 
and  useless  words!  The  Kussian  man  does  not 
need  them,  even  as  u  gift." 

"  What  does  he  need,  according  to  you?  To 
hear  you,  one  would  su])])ose  that  we  w  ere  outside 
the  })ale  of  humanity,  outside  its  laws,  Cxood 
heavens!   the   logic   of   history   demands 

"  But  what  do  you  want  with  that  logic?  We 
can  get  along  without  it." 

"  How  so?  " 

"  \\'hy,  in  this  way:  you  need  no  logic,  I  hope, 
in  oiclei'  to  j)ut  a  |)icce  of  hread  into  your  mouth 
when  vou  are  hungrv.  \\'hat  use  have  we  for 
these  ahstractions?  " 

I'jivel  Petrovitch  waved  his  hands  in  (lesj)air. — 

I  do  not  understand  you,  after  that.  Vou  aie 
insulting  the  l{ussian  nati(!n.  i  do  not  under- 
stand how  it  is  ))ossil)le  not  to  lecognise  princi- 
])les  and  rules?     Hy  loic-e  ol"  w  hat  do  you  act?" 

I  have  already  told    you.  dear  uncU'.  that  we 
recogm'se  no  authorities,"— put  in  ^Vrkady. 

85 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  We  act  by  force  of  that  ^vllich  we  recognise 
as  useful,"— said  BazarofF.  — "  At  the  present 
time,  the  most  useful  thing  of  all  is  rejection — 
we  reject." 

"  Everything?  " 

"  Everytliing." 

"  AMuit  (  Xot  only  art,  poetry  .  .  .  but  also 
...   it  is  terrible  to  utter  it  .  .  .  ." 

"  Everything,"  —  repeated  Bazaroff,  with  in- 
expressible composure. 

Pavel  Petrovitcli  stared  at  him.  He  had  not 
expected  this,  and  Arkady  fairly  flushed  crim- 
son with  delight. 

•  "  But  pardon  me," — began  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch.  "You  reject  everything,  or,  to  speak  more 
accurately,  you  demolish  ever}i:hing.  .  .  .  But 
surely,  it  is  necessary  to  build  up  also." 

"  That 's  no  affair  of  ours.  .  .  The  place  must 
first  be  cleared." 

"  The  contemporary  condition  of  the  populace 
demands  this,"  —  added  Arkady,  with  impor- 
tance:— "  we  must  comply  with  that  demand;  we 
have  no  right  to  devote  ourselves  to  the  gratifica- 
tion of  our  personal  egoism." 

The  last  phrase,  evidently,  did  not  please 
Bazaroff;  it  smacked  of  philosophy,  —  that  is  to 
say,  of  romanticism,  —  for  BazarofF  called  phil- 
i)so})hy  also  romanticism,  but  he  did  not  consider 
it  necessary  to  contradict  his  young  disciple. 

"No,    no!"  —  exclaimed     Pavel     Petrovitch. 

86 


FATIIKHS    AM)   C  IIIIJ)KK\ 

v\illi  a  siHldiii  iiiipcliiosity:  -  "  I  will  not  !»i- 
lieve  tliat  yon,  ^(.nllriiifn.  nvv  ai'c-matily  ac- 
(jiiaintfd  with  tlif  Kiissian  ijcoplc;  that  you  ari' 
representatives  of  its  i((]nirc!nc?its,  its  aspira- 
tions! Xo,  llic  linssian  people  is  not  what  von 
iiiia^ine  it  to  he.  It  sacredly  respects  tradition, 
it  is  |)atriarciial,  it  cannot  li\f  withonl  faith.    .   ."" 

"1  uill  not  (lisj)nte  that!"  inteii-npted  Ha- 
zaroff;— "I  am  e\en  prepared  to  a<^ree  that,  in 
that  respect,  you  are  ii<4ht.   .   ." 

"  l^nt  if  1  am  right   .   .   ." 

'■  Still,  that  proves  nothing." 

"  Preci.sely,  it  proves  nothing,"  —  rei)eated 
Arkady,  with  tjie  coiifidence  of  an  e\i)ert  chess- 
j)layer  who  has  foreseen  his  ad\  cj'saiys  appai- 
ently  exj)ert  move,  and  hence  is  not  in  the  least 
disconceited. 

"Why  does  it  ])rove  nothing!'" —  muttered 
the  astounded  Pa\tl  Petroviteh.  '  Do  you  mean 
to  sav  that  von  are  marehinn'  against  your 
people!'  " 

"And  wjiat  if  I  am  ?  "—exclaimed  l^aziiroff. 
"  The  people  assume  that  when  the  thunder 
i-um!)les  it  is  the  prophet  Klijah  (hi\  ing  across 
the  sky  in  his  chariot.  What  then'  .\iii  I 
bound  to  agree  with  them:'  .\iid.  iMoreo\cr,  thev 
are  Russians,  and  am  not    i   ;i   Russian  ni\sclf  I*  " 

"  Xo,  yon  are  not  a  Hussian,  after  all  you  have 
jvist  said!  1  cannot  acknowledge  you  as  a  Hus- 
sian." 

87 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDRExV 

"  My  grandfather  tilled  the  soil,"— replied 
Bazaroff,  with  haughty  pride.—"  Ask  any  one 
of  your  peasants,  in  which  of  us— in  you  or  in 
me  — he  would  the  more  readily  recognise  a 
fellow-countryman.  You  do  not  even  know  how 
to  talk  witli  him." 

"  But  you  talk  with  him,  and  despise  him,  at 
one  and  the  same  time." 

"  What  of  that,  if  he  deserves  to  be  despised? 
You  censure  my  tendency,  but  who  told  you  that 
it  is  accidental  in  my  case;  that  it  is  not  evoked 
by  that  same  spirit  of  the  people  in  the  name  of 
wliich  you  wage  war?  " 

"  The  idea!    ^luch  need  there  is  of  nihilists!  " 

"  Whether  there  is  need  for  them  or  not,  is  not 
for  us  to  decide.  Assuredly,  you  consider  your- 
self not  devoid  of  usefulness." 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  please  refrain  from 
personalities!"  exclaimed  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
lialf-rising  from  his  seat. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  smiled,  and  laying  his  hand 
on  his  brother's  shoulder,  he  made  him  sit  down 
again.  —  "  Don't  worry,"  —  he  said.  —  1  shall 
not  forget  myself,  precisely  because  of  that  sense 
of  dignity  at  which  ^Ir.  .  .  .  ]Mr.  Doctor  jeers 
so  savagely.  Pardon  me," — he  went  on,  address- 
ing himself  once  more  to  BazarofF:  — "  perhaps 
you  think  your  doctrine  is  a  novelty?  You  are 
mistaken  in  thinking  so.  The  materialism  which 
you  preach  lias  been   in  vogue  more  than  once 

88 


FATTTKltS    AM)   (  HILDin^X 

ali'cady,    and    lias    al\\a\s    shown     ilscH'    tn     lie 
ina(lc<jualf.   .   .   . 

Aiiollicr  I'orc'i^n  wordl"      iiitciTii j)lcd  liaza- 
voiY.      lie  was  hr^^iimin;^-  to  o-ft  aii^ry,  and  his 
countenance    assumed    a    soil    of   coarse,    hra/en 
hue.  — "  In  tlie  first  place,  we  are  not   preacliin^-  i 
anything-;    tiiat   is  not  our  habit.   .   ,   .' 
What  do  yon  do,  then  :"  "' 

"  'Phis  is  wliat  we  do.  I'ornierlv,  in  (hivs  whicli 
are  not  \ct  iTuiote,  we  weiv  accustomed  to  sa\' 
that  our  ollicials  took  hi-ihes:  that  we  liad  no 
roads,  no  trade,  no  ir^ular  courts  of  justice.  .  ."" 

"Well,  ves,  ves,  vou  are  accusers,  —  I  believe 
that  is  what  it  is  called.  .And  w  ith  many  of  your 
accusations  1  agree,  but  ...."" 

"  l^ut,  later  on,  it  dawned  u])on  us  that  it 
was  not  worth  while  to  i)rate,  and  do  nothing- 
hut  prate,  al)ont  oiw  ulcers;  that  that  led  only  to 
trivialities  and  doctiMuairism :  we  ])ercei\<.(l  that 
our  clever  men,  the  so-called  leading  men  and 
accusers,  were  good  for  nothing,  that  we  were 
busying  ourselves  with  nonsense,  talking  about 
some  sort  of  art,  about  unconscious  creation, 
about  i)arliamentarism,  about  ad\ ocateship,  and 
the  de\il  knows  what  else,  when  it  was  a  <|ues- 
tion  of  daily  bread,  when  the  crudest  su|)ersti- 
tion  was  stitling  us,  when  all  our  stock  companies 
were  failing  simply  tlu-ough  the  lack  of  honest 
men,  when  the  very  liberlv  whieji  the  (Govern- 
ment   is  working  o\cr  is  hai-dly    likcN    to  be  of 

89 


FATHERS  AXU  CHILDREN 

any  use  to  iis,  because  our  peasant  is  ready  to  rob 
liiinself,  if  only  he  may  drink  himself  dead  drunk 
in  the  pot-house." 

"  Exactly,"  —  interrupted  Pavel  Petrovitch, — 
"  exactly  so:  you  have  become  convinced  of  all 
this,  and  have  made  up  your  minds  not  to  set 
about  anything  seriously." 

"  And  have  decided  not  to  set  about  any- 
thing,"—  repeated  Bazaroff  grimly.  He  sud- 
denly became  vexed  with  himself  for  having 
been  so  expansive  in  the  presence  of  this  gentle- 
man. 

"  And  only  to  rail?  " 

"  Yes,  only  to  rail." 

"  And  that  is  called  nihilism?  " 

"  And  that  is  called  nihilism," — repeated  Baza- 
roff once  more,  this  time  with  peculiar  insolence. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  narrowed  his  eyes  slightly. 

"So  that's  the  way  the  wind  blows!  "—he 
said,  in  a  strangely  quiet  voice.  — "  Nihilism  is 
})ound  to  aid  every  woe,  and  vou,  vou  are  our 
deliverers  and  heroes.  But  for  what  do  you  take 
others,  —  those  same  deliverers,  for  example?  Do 
not  you  prate,  like  all  the  rest?" 

"  We  are  guilty  in  some  other  respects,  but  not 
of  that  sin,"  — articulated  Bazaroff  through  his 
teeth. 

"What,  then?  Do  you  do  anything,  pray? 
Are  you  ])reparing  to  act?  " 

Bazaroff  made  no  reply.      Pavel    Petrovitch 

90 


FATIIKKS    AM)   (  IIILDHKX 


was   I'airly    (juivcring.   hiil     lir    imiiudiMUly    re- 
gaiju'd  control  of  himself. 

"H'lnl  .  .  .  To  act.  to  (icinoiisli  .  .  .  ."  he 
coiitinuccl.— "  Hut  wliy  (Icinoiisli  without  even 
knowing  the  reason:'  " 

W'c  demolish  hecansc  we  nvc  a  force.  "  re- 
marked Arkady. 

l*avel  l*etr(')\itch  looked  at  his  nephew,  and 
laughed. 

Ves,  a  force,  — and  a  force,  as  sucli,  does  not 
render  an  account  of  itself,"  — said  iVrkady,  and 
straightened  himself  up. 

"  Knhappy  man."--  roared  Pavel  I'etrovitch; 
he  ix)sitively  was  not  able  to  restrain  himself  any 
longer:  —  "  thou  mightest  take  into  considei'ation 
^vhat  it  is  in  Russia  that  thou  ait  upholding  1)\- 
thy  trivial  judgment!  Xo,  this  is  enough  to  make 
an  angel  lose  j)atience!  Force!  There  is  force 
in  the  sa\age  Kalmyk,  and  in  the  Mongolian  also, 
hut  wliat  is  that  to  us?— Civilisation  is  dear  to  us, 
—  yes,  .sir,  ves,  mv  dear  sir.  its  fruits  are  deai-  to 
us.  And  do  not  tell  me  that  those  fruits  are  in- 
significant ;  the  most  w  I'etchcd  dauher.  ////  har- 
houHlii/r,  a  player  of  dance-music  who  is  |)ai(l 
li\c-  ko[)eks  an  evening,-  all  of  them  are  more 
useful  than  you,  because  thex  arc  representatives 
of  civilisation,  and  not  of  crude  Mongolian  force! 
^  ou  imagiiK-  that  you  aic  leaders,  hut  the  onlv 
proper  place  for  you  is  in  a  Kalmyk  tent  I  A 
force!     But     prav  lecolleel.    in    conclusion,    vou 

yi 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

forceful  gentlemen,  that  there  are  only  four  men 
and  a  half  of  you,  but  there  are  millions  of  those 
who  will  not  permit  you  to  trample  under  foot 
their  most  sacred  beliefs,  who  will  crush  you!  " 

"  If  they  crush  us,  tliere  lies  the  road,"  — said 
BazarofF.  — "  Only,  that  question  has  not  yet  been 
decided.  We  are  not  so  few  in  nmiiber  as  you 
sup2)ose/' 

"  What?  Jesting-  aside,  do  you  think  vou  will 
be  able  to  manage  things;  that  you  are  more  than 
a  match  for  the  whole  nation?  " 

"  ^Moscow  was  burned  to  the  ground  by  a  far- 
thing candle,  you  know,"  — replied  BazarofF. 

"  Precisely,  precisely.  First  an  almost  satanic 
pride,  then  derision.  That  — that  is  what  seduces 
the  j^oung  generation,  that  is  what  subjugates  the 
inexperienced  hearts  of  wretched  little  boys! 
Look!  there  sits  one  of  them  by  your  side;  you 
see  that  he  is  almost  worshipping  you;  admire 
him."  (Arkady  turned  aside  and  frowned.) 
"  And  this  infection  is  already  widely  dissem- 
inated. I  am  told  that  our  artists  in  Rome  never 
set  foot  inside  tlie  Vatican.  They  regard  Ra- 
phael as  almost  a  fool,  because,  forsooth,  he  is  an 
authority;  but  they  themselves  are  disgustingly 
impotent  and  sterile,  and  their  imagination  goes 
no  further  than  '  A  Girl  at  the  Fountain,'  say 
what  you  will!  And  the  girl  is  very  badly  painted, 
to  boot.  They  are  fine  fellows  in  your  opinion, 
aren't  they?" 

92 


FATIIKHS    AM)   C  II 1 1  .DHF-X 

"  In  my  opinion."  — retorlid  H.i/iiioir:  — "  Ra- 
pliail  is  n't  worth  a  cojjpcr  I'artliinn-;  arid  tlicy 
arc  better  than  he!  "' 

"  l?i-a\()!  hra\<)I  Listen.  Ai'kady  ....  that's 
tlie  \\a\-  \()iinn'  nun  (d"  thr  present  (la\-  oimiit  to 
express  thein.selves!  i\n(l.  wlicn  yon  eoine  to 
think  ol'  it,  how  ean  thev  heli)  i'ollowiiiir  xoul  In 
former  days,  youno-  i'olUs  had  to  stndy.  they  (h'd 
not  care  to  hear  the  re|)ntation  of  i<4iiorainnses, 
so  thev  worked,  willv-nillv.  But  now,  all  thev 
have  to  do  is  to  say:  '  Everything  in  the  woi'ld  is 
nonsense! '  —  and  that's  the  end  of  the  matter. 
The  young  folks  are  overjoyed.  And,  in  fact, 
fonnerlv  thev  were  simi)lv  I)loekheads,  hut  now 
thev  liave  suddenlv  heeome  nihilists." 

ft  k 

"  That  's  where  your  ])oasted  .sense  of  jjersorial 
dignity  has  fooled  you,'"  remarked  Ha/arofl' 
eoollv,    while    Arkadv    flared    up,    and    his    eves 

*  ft  I  » 

flashed.-  "  Our  dispute  has  gone  too  fai-.  .  .  I 
think  it  would  be  better  to  j)ut  an  end  to  it.  And 
I  shall  he  ready  to  agree  with  you."  he  added, 
rising,  "  when  you  ean  iniiig  foiward  a  single 
institution  of  oui-  e()ntemj)oraiy  c-xistenee,  either 
domestic  oi-  social,  \\hich  docs  not  ehaile?ige  total 
rejection." 

I  will  present  to  you  millions  of  such  insti- 
tutions,"—exclaimed  T^a\(l  Petrovitch:  — "  mil- 
lions!   Why,  take  the  commune,  for  example." 

A  cold  sjicer  curled  Razarof)"^  lips.  —  "  Well,  so 
far  as  the  commune  is  concerned,"  — said  he:  — 

98 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  vou  had  better  talk  witli  vour  brother.  I  think 
he  has  now  found  out,  in  practiee,  what  the  com- 
mune is  hke:  thorough  security,  sobriety,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"  The  family,  then, — the  family,  as  it  exists 
among  our  peasants!" — shouted  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch. 

"  That  question,  also,  I  think,  it  would  be  better 
for  you  not  to  inquire  into  in  detail.  You  have 
heard,  I  fancy,  of  men  making  love  to  their  sons' 
wives?  Listen  to  me,  Pavel  Petrovitch:  give 
yourself  a  couple  of  days  of  grace ;  it  is  n't  likely 
that  you  will  be  able  to  find  anything  on  the  spot. 
Sort  over  all  classes  of  our  societv,  and  meditate 
well  over  each  one,  and,  in  the  meantime,  Arkady 
and  I  will  ..." 

"  Sneer  at  everything," — put  in  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch. 

"  Xo,  cut  up  frogs.  Come  on,  Arkady;  fare- 
well for  the  present,  gentlemen !  " 

The  two  friends  quitted  the  i-oom.  The  bro- 
thers wei-e  left  alone,  and,  at  first,  they  merely 
stared  at  each  other. 

"  There,"  — began  Pavel  Petrovitch  at  last:  — 
"  there  's  the  youth  of  the  present  day  for  you! 
There  they  are — our  heirs!  " 

"  Our  heirs,"— repeated  Xikolai  Petrovitch^ 
with  a  sigh  of  depression.  He  had  been  sitting  on 
hot  coals,  as  it  were,  during  the  whole  course  of 

94 


FATIIKirs    AM)   (  IIILDHKX 


tlie  dispiilc,  and  had  iiicivly  cast  I'lirliM-.  paiiud 
•glances  at  Arkady.-  "  Dost  tlioii  know.  Inotljcr, 
wliat  lias  rcciirrt'd  to  my  mind'  ( )nc  day,  1  (juar- 
relk'd  witli  oui*  dccvasid  molliri':  slic  screamed, 
and  would  nol  listen  to  me  ...  At  last  I  said 
to  lier,  — ■  Wni  eannot  undcfstand  me.'  said  I  :  '  we 
belong  to  two  dift'eri-nt  ^ciui'Mlions,"  said  1.  She 
was  IViii-litfulIv  antiTV.  and  1  thouiilit  to  m\- 
.self:  W'liat  is  to  l)e  done:'  Tlic  ])ill  is  hitter 
hut  it  must  hf  swallowed.  So  now.  our  tui'u 
has  eonie,  and  our  sueeessors  can  say  to  us: 
Vou  are  not  of  our  generation  — swallow  the 
pill.'  •' 

"  Thou  art  too  kind-heai"ted  and  modest,"  —  re- 
turned Pavel  Petroviteh;  — "  on  the  contrary.  T 
am  convinced  that  thou  and  I  are  far  more  in  the 
light  than  those  little  gentlemen,  although  we  ex- 
])ress  ourselves.  |)erhaj)s,  in  somewhat  anti(juate(l 
language,  liave  riclli.  and  do  not  ])()ssess  that  au- 
dacious self-conceit.  .  .  ^Vnd  how  puffed  up 
the  young  ])eople  of  the  j)resent  day  are!  ^Vsk 
one  of  them:  '  AMiat  wine  do  you  |)refer.  red  or 
wliite?' — 'I  am  accustomed  to  prefer  red!*  he 
rej)lies  in  a  hass  \()ice,  and  with  as  j)ompous  a 
vi.sage,  as  though  the  whole  univer.se  were  gazing 
at  him  at  the  mouKJit.   .   ." 

"  ^^^)ul(l  not  you  like  some  more  tea!""  said 
Fenitchka,  sticking  Ik  r  Iu;id  in  at  the  door:  she 
Iiad  not  been  able  to  briiiii'  herself  to  enter  the 

95 


1  ATIIEKS  AND  CHILDREN 

(Irawiiig-rooni  while  the  voices  of  the  disputants 
were  resouiKhng  there. 

"  No,  tliou  inayest  give  orders  to  liave  the 
samovar  removed," — rephed  Nikolai  I'etroviteh, 
rising  to  greet  her.  Pavel  Petrovitch  abruptly 
wished  him  "  Bon  soir"  and  went  off  to  his  owr 
study. 


96 


XI 

Half  an  hour  Inter,  Nikolai  l^etrovitcli  betook 
liimsclC  to  tlie  garden,  to  his  raxourite  arl)our. 
iSK'laiK'iioly  tlioii<^hts  had  taken  j)ossessioii  of  liiiii. 
For  tlie  first  time  he  clearly  realised  the  hreaeh 
l)et\veen  himself  and  his  son;  he  had  a  foreboding 
that  with  every  j)assing  day  it  would  beeome 
wider  and  wider.  So  it  was  in  \ain  that  he  had 
sat,  at  Petersburg,  over  the  newest  books,  during 
the  wintei-;  in  vain  had  he  listened  to  the  eonver- 
sations  ol'  the  young  men:  in  \ain  had  he  rejoieed 
when  he  had  succx?eded  in  interpolating  a  I'emark 
of  his  own  into  their  fervent  sj)eeehes.  "  My 
brother  says  tliat  we  are  in  the  right,"  be  thought; 
"  and  setting  aside  all  self-eofieeit,  it  seems  to  me, 
also,  that  they  are  furthei'  from  the  trutli  than 
we  are;  and,  at  the  same  time,  I  feel  that  thev 
bave  something  whieh  wv  do  not  possess,  some  su- 
periority over  us.  .  .  ^'outh:'  Xo:  it  is  not  youth 
alone.  Does  not  their  sujxriority  consist  iji  the 
fact,  that  in  them  there  :u'v  fewei'  traces  of  the 
ge!»try  regime  tluiii  In  us'"" 

Nikolai  Petr<')vitch  hung  bis  bead,  and  passed 
his  band  ovrr  his  face. 

"Hut    must   one   reject    poctiy!'"     he  said   to 

97 


FATHERS  xVXD  CHlLDllEX 

liiiiiself  again:  "is  one  to  feel  no  sympathy  for 
art,  for  nature?  .  .  ." 

And  he  cast  a  glance  around  him,  as  though  de- 
sirous of  understanchng  liow  it  was  })()ssihle  not  to 
feel  symjjathy  for  natiu'e.  The  shades  of  twihght 
were  already  heginning  to  descend;  the  sun  had 
hidden  itself  behind  a  small  aspen  grove,  which 
lay  half  a  verst  distant  from  the  garden;  its 
shadow  stretched  out  illimitabh^  across  the  mo- 
tionless fields.  A  peasant  was  riding  at  a  gallop 
on  a  white  horse,  along  the  dark,  narrow  road 
which  skirted  the  edge  of  the  grove:  his  whole 
figure  was  clearly  visible,  everything  about  him, 
down  to  the  patch  on  his  shoulder,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  riding  in  the  shadow;  the  hoofs 
of  the  horse  flashed  out  with  pleasing  distinctness. 
The  rays  of  the  sun,  on  their  side,  made  their  way 
into  the  grove,  and  piercing  tlirough  the  thick- 
ets, flooded  the  boles  of  the  trees  with  so  Marm  a 
glo\\',  that  tliese  were  made  to  resemble  the  boles 
of  pine-trees,  while  their  foliage  turned  almost 
blue,  and  abo\'e  it  rose  the  pale  azure  sky, 
faintly  crimsoned  by  tlie  sunset.  The  swallows 
were  flying  high;  tlie  breeze  had  completely  died 
down ;  belated  bees  hummed  languidly  and  sleep- 
ily in  the  lihic  blossoms;  midges  hovered  in  a  pillar 
above  an  isohited,  far-outstretching  branch.  "  JNIy 
God,  liow  beautiful!"  tliought  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch,  and  liis  favourite  verses  were  on  the  point  of 
springing  to  his  lips:  he  recalled  Arkady,— "Stofi" 

98 


FATIIKUS  AM)  CIIILDHKX 

und  Kraft  "-and  fell  sik'iit,  hut  c-oiilinucd  lo  sit 
on,  continued  to  surrender  liiniscH'  to  the  sad  and 
eheering  play  of  liis  solitary  meditations.  He 
lo\ed  to  meditate:  country  life  liad  d(  \ cloijcd  in 
him  this  capacity.  It  was  not  so  very  lon*^-  since 
lie  had  meditated  as  he  waited  for  his  son  at  the 
postin«>"-stati()n.  and  since  then  a  ehan<4e  had 
taken  place,  and  their  relations,  which  had  still 
been  ill-detined  at  that  time,  had  become  clearly 
defined  ....  and  in  what  a  way!  Again  his  de- 
ceased wife  presented  herself  to  him.  but  not  as 
he  had  known  her  durin<»-  the  course  of  manv 
years,  —  not  as  a  thrifty,  kind  housewire.  but  as  a 
voun<>-  ijirl  with  a  slender  form,  an  imiocentlv- 
incjuiring  glance,  and  hei-  Iiair  closely  coiled  on 
her  childish  neck.  lie  recalled  her  as  he  had  be- 
held h<M'  for  the  first  time.  I  le  w  as  a  student  then. 
Tie  had  met  bei-  on  the  staircase  of  the  lodgings 
in  which  he  li\ed,  and.iniintentionallv,  he  had  ios- 
tied  her,  had  turned  round,  had  endea\()ured  to 
excuse  himself,  and  had  onl}  been  a])le  to  stam- 
mer, "Pardon,  nuni.siciir''  while  she  had  l)cMt  her 
head,  had  laughed,  and  then,  suddenly,  had 
seemed  to  take  fright,  and  bad  tied:  but  at  the 
turn  of  the  staircase  she  iind  thrown  a  u'lanee 
backward  at  him,  bad  assumed  a  serious  mien,  and 
had  blushed.  And  then,  the  fiivst  timid  \  isits,  the 
half-words,  the  iialf'-smilis.  and  tlu-  a\v  kwardness, 
and  the  sadness,  and  the  outl)uists,  and,  at  List, 
that  panting  joy.  .  .  W'liither  liad  all  tiial  whirled 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDKEN 

away?  She  had  become  his  wife;  he  had  been 
happy  as  few  on  earth  are  happy.  .  .  "  But,"  he 
thought : — '  'those  dehghtfiil  first  moments ; — why 
could  not  they  hve  forever,  with  hfe  immortal?  " 

He  did  not  attempt  to  elucidate  his  thouglit  to 
himself,  but  he  was  conscious  that  he  would  have 
liked  to  hold  fast  to  that  blissful  time  by  some- 
thing more  forcible  than  memory;  he  woidd  have 
liked  to  possess  once  more  tangible  evidence  of  his 
jNlarj'a's  nearness,  to  feel  her  warmth  and  her 
breath;  and  he  had  already  begun  to  fancy  that, 
above  him 

"  Nikolai  Petrovitch," — resounded  Fenitchka's 
voice  near  him:  — "  where  are  you?  " 

He  sliuddered.  He  was  neither  pained  nor  con- 
science-stricken. .  .  He  did  not  even  admit  the 
]3()ssil)ility  of  a  com])arison  betw-een  his  wife  and 
Fenitchka,  ])ut  he  regretted  tliat  she  had  taken  a 
notion  to  hunt  liim  u}).  Her  voice  instantaneously 
reminded  him  of  his  grey  hair,  his  advanced  age, 
his  present  .... 

The  world  of  enchantment,  into  wliich  he  had 
already  entered,  wliich  liad  s])rung  fortli  from  the 
misty  waves  of  the  past,  trembled,  —  and  vanished. 

"I  am  here,"  — he  replied:  "I  will  come;  go 
along."  "  Here  are  traces  of  the  old  gentry  re- 
gime," flashed  through  liis  mind.  Fenitchka 
peeped  silently  at  him  in  the  arbour,  and  disap- 
peared; and  lie  noticed,  with  surprise,  that  night 
had  descended  since  he  had  begun  to  meditate. 

100 


FATTIKHS   AXl)  CIITT.DHKX 

Tsvcrytliin^  had  •>r()wii  dark  and  siknt  round 
about,  and  FcuitfliUa's  face  flitlt-d  before  bini, 
\  ery  u  Iiite  and  small.  I  le  half-rose  from  his  seat, 
and  was  about  to  sit  out  homeward;  l)ul  his  soft- 
ened lieait  would  not  ealm  dow  n  in  his  breast,  and 
he  be<)an  to  sti'oll  slowK'  about  the  garden,  now 
thou;'ht  full\-  stai'iim'  at  the  <>roini(l  beneatli  liis 
feet,  now  raisin*^-  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  wjiere  the 
stars  were  swarming  and  twinkling.  He  walked 
for  a  long  time,  almost  to  fatigue,  and  still  the 
tumult  w  ithin  him,  a  sort  of  importunate,  unde- 
fined, nielaneholy  tumult,  did  not  subside.  Oh, 
how  Hazaroft'  would  have  laughed  at  him,  had  he 
known  what  was  going  on  within  him  then!  Ar- 
kady himself  would  have  eondemned  him.  Tears, 
eauseless  tears,  welled  up  in  his  eyes — in  the  eyes 
of  tlie  agrieulturist  and  estate-owner;  this  was 
a  hundredfold  worse  than  the  violoneello. 

Nikolai  Petroviteh  continued  to  walk,  and 
could  not  bring  himself  to  enter  the  house,  that 
peaceful  and  cosey  ?u'st,  whicli  gazed  with  such 
welcome  at  him  from  all  its  illuminated  windows; 
he  was  not  able  to  tear  himself  away  from  tlie 
darkness,  from  the  garden,  fi-om  the  feeling  of 
the  cool  air  o?i  his  face,  and  from  that  sadness, 
that  agitation   .... 

At  a  turn  in  the  |)ath,  P;i\'el  iVtiox  itch  met 
him. 

"  \\'hat  is  the  matter  with  thee?"  —  he  asked 
Xikohii    I'etnnitch :      '■thou    art    as    pale    as    a 

101 


FATHERS  AXD  CHILDRFA 

ghost;  thou  art  not  well;  why  dost  not  thou  go  to 
bed?" 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  explained  to  him,  in  brief 
words,  his  spiritual  eondition,  and  walked  on. 
Pavel  Petr6^'itch  went  to  the  end  of  the  garden, 
and  he  also  became  thoughtful,  and  he  also 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven.  But  in  his  fine,  dark 
eyes  there  was  notliing  reflected  except  the  light 
of  the  stars.  Pie  had  not  been  born  romantic,  and 
his  elegantly-dry  and  passionate  soul,  misan- 
thropic after  the  French  fashion,  did  not, know 
how  to  meditate.  .  .  . 

"Dost  thou  know  what?"  said  BazaroiF  to 
Arkady,  that  same  night.  — "  A  magnificent  idea 
has  come  into  mv  head.  Thy  father  said,  to-day, 
that  he  had  received  an  invitation  from  that  dis- 
tinguished relative  of  yours.  Thy  father  will  not 
go;  let 's  flit  off,  thou  and  I,  to  *  *  *  ;  that  gentle- 
man has  invited  thee  also,  tliou  knowest.  For 
thou  seest  ^^'hat  sort  of  weather  has  set  in  here; 
but  we  will  have  a  drive,  we  '11  take  a  look  at  the 
town.  We  '11  lounge  about  five  or  six  days,  and 
— basta!" 

"  And  wilt  thou  return  here  from  there?  " 

"  No,  I  must  go  to  my  father.  Thou  knowest 
he  is  thirty  versts  from  *  *  *.  I  have  not  seen  him 
for  a  long  time,  nor  my  mother  either;  I  must, 
comfort  the  old  folks.  They  are  good  people, 
especially  my  father :  he  's  very  amusing.  And 
I  'm  their  only  child." 

102 


I  ATIII'-KS    AM)   C  IlILDinA 

Ami  wilt   llinu  remain  lon^-  willi  thinif  " 
I  think  not.     I  shall  hr  hortd,  1   fancy. " 
And  wilt  thon  drop  in  to  sec  ns  on  tin'  \\a\ 
hack^" 

I  don  t  know  .   .    .    I  shall  sec.     Conic,  hnw  is  it 
to  he  (     Shall  we  i^o!'    " 

11"  thon  wishes!. '"      i-cmai-kcd  Ai'kiidy  lazily. 

At    heart,    he    was    i»reatly    delighted    at     hi^: 

IViend's    |)i-()j)()sal.     hnt     he    considered     hiniselt' 

honnd  to  conceal  his  feeling.      Xot  for  nothing 

was  he  a  nihilist. 

On  the  follow  ing  day,  he  dioxc  off  with  l5a/<-i- 
rotr  to  *  *  *.  'ITic  yonng  people  at  Marino  re- 
gretted their  (le])artnre:  Dnnyasha  even  fell  t(< 
weeping  .  .  .  hut  the  older  men  hre-itlicd  more 
frech'. 


nm 


XTI 

The  town  of  *  *  *,  wliillicr  our  iVieiuls  luul  be- 
taken themselves,  lay  in  the  jurisdiction  of  a  gov- 
ernor who  belonged  to  the  younger  generation, 
was  ])rogressive  and  a  despot,  as  is  often  the  case 
in  Russia.  In  the  course  of  the  first  year  oi'  his 
rule,  lie  managed  to  quarrel,  not  only  with  the 
^Tarshal  of  the  Nobility  for  the  Government,  a 
retired  staff'-ca])tain  of  cavaliy  in  the  Guards, 
a  horse-breeder  and  hos])itable  man,  but  also  with 
his  own  officials.  The  altercations  which  arose  in 
conscquen.ee  finally  attained  to  such  dimensions 
that  the  ^linistry  in  Petersburg  found  it  indis- 
pensable to  send  a  confidential  ])erson  with  a 
commission  to  investigate  everything  on  the  spot. 
The  choice  of  the  administration  fell  ujx)!!  ^Fat- 
vyei  Hitch  Kolya/in,  the  son  of  that  Kolyazin  un- 
der whose  protection  the  Kirsjinoff  brothers  had 
once  been.  Tic,  also,  was  one  of  the  "  young  gen- 
eration," that  is  to  say.  he  had  only  recently  passed 
his  fortieth  birthday:  but  be  was  already  aiming 
to  become  a  statesman,  and  wore  a  star  on  each 
side  of  his  breast.  One,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  of  a 
foreign  Order,  and  of  a  ])etty  Order,  at  tliat. 
T.ikc  the  Governor,  whom  he  ]iad  come  to  judge, 

10  J. 


FATHKKS   AM)   (  IIII.DKKX 

lie  ir«;ar(l(.'(l  liiiiiscH'  as  |)r()«»Tcssivc',  and,  hting 
already  a  l)ig-\\ig,  did  not  rc.sciHl)!^  tlit-  majority 
of  l)io-\vios.  lie  clR'rislR'd  llii'  loflit-st  opinion  of 
liiniscll":  liis  \anil\  knew  no  l)OMn(ls;  l)ut  he  bore 
Iiiniseli'  simply,  his  <^a/c  was  approvin*^",  lie  lis- 
tened att'ahly  and  smiled  so  good-naturedly  that, 
at  first  sight,  he  might  have  ])assed  for  a  "  splen- 
did fellow."  Hut,  on  important  occasions,  he 
knew  how  to  kick  up  a  row,  as  the  expression  goes. 
''  Knergy  is  indispensable,  "  —  he  was  wont  to  say 
then,  —  "  Vciicr^ic  est  la  premiere  qualite  d'un 
Jioi/ime  d'ctdt" :  but,  notwithstanding  this,  he  gen- 
erally got  left  in  the  lurch,  and  any  official  who 
was  in  the  least  degree  experienced  rode  him  at 
v\ill.  Matvyei  Hitch  referred  with  great  respect 
to  (iuizot,  and  tried  to  im])ress  upon  all  and  sun- 
dry that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  class  of 
routine  men,  and  bureaucrats,  who  were  be- 
hind the  times,  that  he  let  not  a  single  important 
phenomenon  of  social  life  escape  his  attention.  .  . 
All  such  words  were  ^vell  known  to  him.  He 
even  watched,  w  ith  careless  haughtiness,  it  is  tiuie, 
the  development  ol'  contempoi'arv  literature:  like 
a  gi"ow  n  man  who.  on  encountering  upoji  the 
street  a  ])rocession  of  small  boys,  sometimes  joins 
theii-  i-anks.  In  reality.  Matvyei  ilitch  had  not 
got  very  far  away  from  those  statesmen  of  the 
epoch  of  Alexander,  who,  Avhen  ])re])aring  to 
sp<iid  the  evening  with  Madame  Svetchin,  who 
then   i-esidcd   in    Petersburg,   were  accustomed   to 

10.) 


FATHERS  AND  ClllLDREX 

,.eaaapa,eo.Co„ai,Iacinthe„,o,.ni.,,:o,„,,| 
his  methods  were  different  — more  modern.  He 
was  a  cle^•er  eourtier,  a  very  artful  blade,  and 
nothin"'  more:  he  did  not  understand  business, 
he  had  no  mind,  but  he  knew  how  to  manage  his 
own  affairs;  no  one  could  saddle  and  ride  him 
in  that  quarter,  and  that  is  the  chief  thing,  after 
all. 

iMat\yei  Hitch  received  Arkady  with  the  affa- 
bility pecidiar  to  an  enlightened  dignitary, — we 
will  say  more :  with  playfulness.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  amazed  when  he  learned  that  the  relatives 
whom  he  had  invited  had  remained  in  the  country. 
"  Thy  ird\yd  was  always  a  queer  fish,"  he  re- 
marked, twirling  the  tassels  of  his  magnificent 
velvet  dressing-gown;  and,  all  at  once,  turning  to 
a  young  official  in  the  most  well-intentioned, 
closely-buttoned  inidress-uniform,  he  exclaimed, 
with  an  anxious  aspect,  "AVhat^'  The  young- 
man,  whose  lips  were  glued  fast  together  through 
prolonged  silence,  rose,  and  stared  at  his  superior 
with  surprise.  Rut,  after  having  stunned  his  sub- 
ordinate, Matvyei  Ilitcli  j)ai(l  no  I'ui-ther  atten- 
tion to  him.  Our  officials,  in  general,  are  fond  of 
stunnina"  their  suboi-dinates,  and  the  means  to  - 
which  they  resort  for  the  attainment  of  this  end 
are  decidedly  varied.  The  following  method, 
among  others,  is  fre(]uently  employed,  — "  is  quite 
a  favourite,"  as  the  Knglish  say:  the  dignitary 
suddenly  ceases   to  understand  the  most  sim[)lc 

106 


KATUI^KS   AM)   C'lIILDIiKX 

words,  ikal'ncss  dcsceiuls  upon  liiiu.    He  will  ask, 
for  exani])lc':  "  AVliat  daN'  is  to-dav?  " 

TTi'  is  inf'oi-iiR'd,  in  the  most  r('S])ectfnl  man- 
ner: '■  To-day  is  I*'i-ida\  .  youi-  C  .  .  clrn  .  .  .  cv." 

"How:'  \\'liat :'  \\'lial  do  you  mean  by  l^'j'i- 
dayf     What  Friday  r" 

l''i"i(lay.  yoiu'  C  .   .   .   .   ccc  .   .   .   ccc* 

lency.  is  a  day  of  the  week." 

"  Come.  now.  liast  tliou  taken  it  into  th}'  head 
to  teach  meC  " 

^latvyei  Ihtcli  was  a  dignitary,  all  the  same, 
althou<>h  lie  considered  himself  a  liberal. 

"  1  a(h  ise  thee,  my  friend,  to  call  upon  tlie 
(iovenio)-."  —  he  said  to  Arkjidy:  —  "  tliou  under- 
standest,  I  <4'ive  thee  this  advice,  not  because  1  am 
wedded  to  antique  conceptions  as  to  the  necessity 
of  going  and  making  one's  ]k)w  to  tlie  powers 
that  be,  but  simi)ly  ])ecause  the  Governor  is  a 
nice  man;  moreover,  tliou  art,  probably,  desirous 
of  makijig  ac(juaintance  with  the  local  society.  .  . 
For  thou  art  not  a  beai-,  I  liope?  And  he  is  going 
to  give  a  great  ball  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Shall  you  be  at  tlie  ball:'  "  —  inquired  Arkady. 

"  He  is  giving  it  in  mv  honouj-,"— said  Matvvei 
Hitch,  almost  with  compunction.  "  Dost  thou 
dance? " 

"Yes.  but  badly." 

"  That  is  a  mistake.  Tliere  are  pretty  women 
here.  mjkI  it  is  a  shame  for  a  young  man  not  to 
dance.     And  again.  I  say  this  not  in  virtue  of  an- 

107 


FATIIKIJS    AM)   (  IIILDKKX 

tiqiie  itieas;  I  do  not.  in  liie  least,  assiinie  tliat  tlic 
))rain  must  Ik-  located  in  tlie  feet,  but  Byronism  is 
ridienlous,  /"/  d  fail  son  Ir/n j)s." 

"  AN'liy,  uncle,  il  is  not  in  tiie  least  because  ol' 
Byi'onisni  tliat  1 

"  I  will  introduce  tliee  to  tlie  vouu"'  ladies  here. 
I  will  take  thee  under  my  wing," — interrupted 
jNIatvyei  Hitch,  and  laug'hcd  in  a  self-satisfied 
way.     "  Thou  wilt  find  it  warm,  hey?  " 

^V  servant  entered  and  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  chaii'man  of  the  Court  of  Kxchequci-.  a 
soft -eyed  old  man.  with  wrinkled  lips,  wlio  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  nature,  especially  on  a  summei- 
dav,  when,  according'  to  his  words.  "  everv  little 
bee  takes  a  bri]:>e  from  every  little  ])lossom.  .  . 
Arkady  withdrew. 

He  found  Bazaroff  in  the  inn  where  they  had 
put  up,  and  tried  for  a  long  time  to  persuade  him 
to  go  to  the  Governor.  "  There  's  nothing  to  be 
done!"  said  BazjirofF  at  last,  —  "as  you  have  mad* 
your  bed,  so  you  must  lie  u])on  it.  We  have  come 
to  ins])ect  the  landed  gentry,  so  let  's  inspect 
them!  " 

The  Governor  received  the  voung  men  cour- 
teously,  but  did  not  invite  them  to  sit  down, 
and  did  not  sit  down  himself.  lie  was  forever 
laistling  and  hunying;  he  donned  his  tight  un- 
dress-uniform in  the  morning,  and  an  excessively 
tight  neck-cloth,  never  ate  or  drank  liis  fill,  was 
forever  gi\ing  orders.     TTe  had  been  nicknaiiied 

108 


FATIIKKS   AM)   C  IIILDHKX 


ill  IIr'  (i()\  iTiniK'iit  "  HoiirdaloMc, '"  llic  allusion 
iiol  l)c-iii^'  to  lIic  rainoiis  I''i'inc'Ii  j)i'c'ac'licr,  lail  lo 
})nrda.^  lit'  i(i\ilt'(l  Kii's;'moir  and  Ha/aroll'  lo 
his  hall,  and  a  ('oii|)k'  of  iiiiniitrs  later  \\v  iii\  itfd 
thi'iii  a  second  lime,  nndei"  the  iiii|)i'essi()n  that 
thcv  were  hrotliers,  and  calling'  them  "  Knisa- 
roff." 

They  were  on  tlicii-  way  home  IVom  the-  (Gov- 
ernor's when,  sii(ldinl\,  from  one  of  tlie  passin«4' 
th"()/likies  there  sj^raii^'  out  a  man  of  sliort  stature, 
ill  a  Slavyaiio))hil  liussar  jaeket,  and  with  the 
shout,  ■'  Kv<>'eny  \^asihtch!  "  flung' himself  on  l?a- 
zaroff'. 

"xVlil  so  it  \s  you.  llei'i-  SftnikofF,"  —  said  lia- 
Ziiroff,  and  he  continued  to  stride  along  the  side- 
walk:— "  hou   do  yon  hai)j)en  to  he  here^  " 

"Just  imaginel  (|uite  hy  accident,"  —  replied 
tlie  other,  and,  turniiii''  towaixl  the  drozhkv,  he 
waved  liis  hand  five  times,  and  shouted:  "  Follow 
us,  follow  us  I  My  father  has  husiness  here,"  —  lie 
went  on,  as  he  sprang  across  the  gutter:  — "  well, 
and  so  he  invited  me.  ...  I  learned  to-day  of 
your  anixal,  and  have  already  heen  to  see  yon."' 
(In  fact,  the  rrieiids,  on  tliiii-  rctnin  to  their 
room,  found  there  a  card  with  the  corners  turned 
down,  and  the  name  of  SitJiikoli'  in  r'reiich  on 
one  side  and  in  Slaxonic  sci'i])t  on  the  othei'. )  "  I 
ho))c  yon  air  not  coming  IVom  tlic  ( i()\('rnoi':'   " 

"Do  not  hope,      we  arc  straight   from  liim.  ' 

^  ,\  bad,  iiiiiddy  brvcr.ip-.      'liiANSiATdR. 

lO'J 


FATHERS  AND  CIIJI.DRKX 

"  Ah!  in  tliat  case  1  shall  eaiJ  upon  him  also.  .  . 
Evgeny  Vasihtch,  introduce  nie  to  your  ...  to 
him.  .  ." 

''  Sitnikoft'—Kirsanoff,"— growled    liazaroff, 

witliout  lialting. 

"  I  feel  greatly  flattered,"  — began  Sitnikoff, 
walking  sideways,  grinning,  and  hastily  i)ull- 
ing  off'  his  far  too  elegant  gloves.  —  "  I  have 
heard  a  great  deal  ....  1  am  an  old  acquain- 
tance of  Evgeny  \'asilitch,  and,  I  may  say,  his 
disciple.  I  am  indebted  to  him  for  my  regenera- 
tion 

Arkady  looked  at  BazarofF's  disci])le.  An  agi- 
tated and  stupid  ex})ression  lay  upon  the  small 
hut  am-eeable  features  of  his  smoothlv-licked 
face;  his  small  eyes,  which  had  the  appearance  of 
beinii"  crushed  in,  stared  intently  and  uneasilv, 
and  he  lauohed  uneasilv,  with  a  sort  of  curt, 
wooden  laugh. 

"Would  you  Ix^'lieve  it,"  — he  went  on:  ''that 
when  Evgeny  Vasilitch  said,  for  the  lirst  time, 
in  my  ])resence,  that  one  ought  not  to  respect  the 
authorities.  T  expei'ienced  such  rapture  ....  1 
fairly  seemed  to  have  recovered  my  sight !  Here, 
said  I  to  myself,  I  have  found  a  man,  at  last !  Ry 
the  way,  Evgeny  Vasilitch,  you  nuist,  without 
fail,  call  on  one  of  the  ladies  here,  who  is  thor- 
oughly in  .1  position  to  understand  you,  and  for 
whom  voui-  \  isit  will  constitute  a  veritable  festi- 
val" you  have  heard  of  her,  I  think:'  " 

no 


rA'niKJiS    AM)   C  111L1)1{K\ 

"  Who  is  slie?  "  —  articulated  Ba/arofr  iinwill- 
mgW. 

MadaiiK'  Kuksliin,  Kudoxie.  — Kvdoksiya 
KuUsiuii.  SIk-  is  a  rc'inai'kal)lc  nature,  cmaiici- 
ju'c  in  tile  liiii-  sense  ol'  tlie  word,  a  k-adin^- 
woman.  Do  you  know  what:'  Let's  go  to  her 
now,  all  togetlu'i'.  She  h\es  a  eouple  oi"  paces 
from  here.  We  will  hreaki'ast  theie.  Vou  have 
not  hreakf'asted  yet,  of  course?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

'*  Well,  that  \s  tine.  She  lias  separated  from 
her  hushand,  you  understand;  she  is  not  depen- 
dent on  anyhody." 

"  Is  siie  pretty;*  "  interruptetl  IJazaroff. 

"  X  .  .  .  no,  I  cannot  say  that  she  is." 

"  Then,  why  the  devil  do  you  invite  us  to  go 
to  her?" 

"  Well,  you  jester,  you  jester!  .  .  .  She  will 
set  us  u})  a  bottle  of  champagne." 

"  You  don't  saj'  so!  The  practical  man  is  vis- 
ible at  once.  By  the  way,  is  your  father  still  en- 
gaged  in  revenue-farming?  " 

"  Ves,"  — said  Sitnikoff  hastily,  and  emitted  a 
shrill  laugh.    "  Well,  how  is  it  to  be  ^    Is  it  a  go?  " 

"  I  really  do  not  know." 

"  Thou  hast  desired  to  observe  people,  .so  go," 
—  remarked  Arkady  in  an  undertone. 

"But  what  of  you,  Mr.  Kirsjinoff;' "  inter- 
posed SitnikofV.  "  Tray  come  also;  we  cannot 
gt^t  along  w  itbout  \-ou. " 

111 


FATIIEKS   AM)  CTTTLDUEX 

"  But  liow  can  we  all  descend  u^^on  her  at 
once  f 

"  Xever  mind.  Kid^slifna  '  is  a  splendid  fel- 
low." 

"Will  there  he  a  hottle  of  champagne?"  in- 
(jiiired  Bazjiroff. 

"Three  hottles!  "  exclaimed  SitnikofF.-'*  I 
o'uarantee  that." 

"How?" 

"  15y  my  own  head." 

"  By  your  father's  purse  would  he  hetter. 
However,  we  will  ffo. 


1  The  feminine  form  of  the  surname,  without  prefix,  is  sometime- 
used,  as  well  as  the  masculine. — TRANsi.AToit. 


11!^ 


XI 11 

TiiK  tiny  liousc  ol"  ii()l)ility.  al'ti-r  the  Moscow 
i'asiiioii,  ill  wliicli  dwelt  AxchHya  '  X  ikitisliiui,  oi' 
Kxdoksiya  Kiikslii'ii.  was  sitiialcd  on  one  ot"  tlu- 
recently-hurned  streets  ol'  the  town  of  *  *  *;  (it 
is  a  well-known  i'aet  tliat  onr  provincial  capitals 
burn  down  e\-ery  ti\'e  yeai's) .  At  the  door,  over  a 
visiting-cai'd  nailed  u[)  askew,  the  hell-handle  was 
visible,  and  in  the  anteroom  the  visitors  were  met 
by  a  woman,  \\  ho  was  eithei"  a  sei'vant  or  a  com- 
panion,  in  a  cap,  — plain  tokens  of  the  house-mis- 
tress's progressive  tendencies.  Sitnikoft'  iiKjuired 
whetlier  Axdotya  Xikitishna  was  at  liome. 

"  Is  that  you.  \"ictor :"  " — rang  out  a  shrill  voice 
i'rom  the  adjoining  room.      "  Come  in." 

The  woman  in  the  caj)  immediately  vanished. 

"  r  am  not  alone,"  —  said  Si'tnikofl',  hi-iskly 
Hinging  aside  his  Ilungai-ian  cloak,  undei"  which 
a|)])eared  something  in  the  natnre  of  a  \\aistcoat, 
or  a  sack -coal,  and  casting  a  daring  glance  at  Ai- 
kady  and  Ha/aroff. 

"  \<>  matter,"      replied  the  xoiee.      " lliiircz!  '* 

The  young  men  entered.  The  loom  in  which 
the>'    found    tliemsehes    resembled    a    working- 

'  Avd«5tya  is  tli<-  viiljf.ir,  jiDpiilir  loriu  of  Kvdoksiya.  -   Thansi.atdh. 

jia 


FATHERS  AM)  ClULDKEX 

study  rather  than  a  drawing-room.  Documents, 
letters,  thick  numbers  of  Russian  journals,  chielly 
uncut,  were  scattered  about  on  the  dusty  tables; 
everywhere  the  discarded  butts  of  cigarettes 
gleamed  whitely.  On  the  leather  couch  half- 
reclined  a  lady,  young,  fair-haired,  rather  dishev- 
elled, in  a  silk  gown  which  was  not  quite  clean, 
with  big  bracelets  on  her  short  arms,  and  a  lace 
kerchief  on  her  head.  She  rose  from  the  divan, 
and  carelessly  dra^^'ing  up  on  her  shoulders  a  vel- 
vet cloak  lined  with  ermine  which  had  grown  yel- 
low, she  languidly  said,  "  Good  morning,  Victor," 
and  shook  Sitnikoff  by  the  hand. 

"  BazarofF,  Kirsanoff," — said  he  abruptly,  in 
imitation  of  BazarofF. 

"  You  are  welcome," — replied  jNIadame  Kuk- 
shin ;  and  riveting  upon  BazarofF  her  round  eyes, 
between  which,  like  an  orphan,  her  tiny,  snub  nose 
gleamed  redly,  she  added:  —  "  I  know  you,"  —  and 
shook  hands  with  him  also. 

BazarofF  knit  his  brows.  There  was  nothing 
monstrous  about  tiie  tiny  and  liomely  figure  of  tlic 
emancipated  woman:  but  the  expi'cssion  of  her 
face  liad  an  un))k'asant  effect  on  the  spectator. 
One  involuntarily  wanted  to  ask  her:  "  \Miat  's 
the  matter?  Art  tliou  hungrv?  oi"  bored f  or 
afraid?  AVliv  ai't  tliou  so  gloomv?"  Her 
soul,  like  that  of  SftnikofF,  was  always  aching. 
She  talked  and  mo\'ed  in  a  very  free-and-easy 
Avay,  but,  at  the  same  time,  awkwardly:  evidently 


1  ATIIKUS   AND   ClIiLUUI.X 

she  regarded  lierself  as  a  <4()()(l-iiatiired  and  sim- 
ple being,  and  yet,  no  matter  wiiat  slie  tlid,  it  con- 
stantly seemed  to  you  that  that  was  not  ])recisely 
what  she  meant;  everything  turned  ont  with  her, 
as  the  ehildren  say.  done  "  on  |)uii)ose  "  —  that  is 
to  sav,  not  simi)l\-.  not   naturali\. 

\  es.  yes,  I  know  you.  Ha/a  rot!*,"  — she  re- 
peated. (She  had  a  lial>it.  })eeuhar  to  many  pro- 
vineial  and  Moscow  ladies,  of  calling  men  by  their 
surnames  on  first  acquaintance.)  "Will  you 
have  a  cigar?  " 

"  A  cigar  is  all  well  enough,"  — chimed  in  Sit- 
nikotr,  who  had  managed  to  throw  himself  into  an 
arm-chair,  in  a  lolling  posture,  and  stick  iiis  foot 
up  in  the  air:  —  "  hut  i)ray  give  us  some  breakfast. 
We  are  frightlully  hungry;  and  order  them  to  set 
up  a  botile  of  cham])agne." 

"  Sybarite,"— said  Evdoksiya,  and  laughed. 
( Wiien  she  laughed  her  up])er  gum  was  laid  bare 
above  her  teeth.) —"  Tie 's  a  Sybarite,  isn't  lie. 
BaziirofF?  " 

"  1  love  comfort,  life,"  —  remarked  Sitnikoif 
pompously.  — "  That  does  not  ])revent  my  being 
a  liberal." 

Ves.  it  does-  it  does  ])revent!" — exclaimed 
Kvdoksiya:  but,  ne\  ei'theless,  she  ordered  her 
maid-sti-\  aiil  to  attend  to  tlic  ])reakfast  and  the 
ciiampagne. — '"  What  do  you  think  about  it?" — 
she  added,  addressing  Hazaroff.  — "  J  am  con- 
vijiced  that  you  share  my  opinion." 

11.5 


1  AlITKUS  AM)  ciiiM)in:\ 

"  \\'('ll.  no,"— returned  Haziirofl':  —  "a  piece 
of  meat  is  ])ettei-  tlian  a  piece  ol'  bread,  even  from 
the  chemical  j)()int  oi'  view." 

"  And  do  vou  occu])v  yourself  with  chemistrv:' 
It  is  my  ])assion.  I  have  even  invented  a  mastic 
myself." 

'"A  mastic r     You?" 

"  Yes,  I.  And  do  3'ou  know  witli  what  object? 
In  order  to  make  dolls,  and  heads  which  shall  not 
])reak.  Foi-  T  am  ])ractical  too.  But  all  is  not 
vet  ready.  1  must  still  read  Liebi"-.  15 v  the  way, 
have  you  read  KislyakoiF's  article  about  woman's 
woi'k,  in  the  Moscorc  Neics?  Read  it,  please. 
You  are  interested  in  the  woman  question,  of 
course?  And  in  schools  also?  AVhat  does  your 
friend  do?    What  is  his  name?  " 

jNJadame  Kukshfn  drop])ed  all  her  questions, 
one  after  another,  with  enervated  carelessness, 
without  waitino-  for  answers;  s])oilcd  children  talk 
to  their  nurses  in  the  same  way. 

"  My  name  is  Arkady  Xikolaevitch  Kirsa- 
noff."  —  said  Arkady:  —  "and  I  do  nothing'." 

Kvdoksiya  laughed  aloud.  — "  Is  n't  that  nice? 
What,  don't  you  smoke?  Yictor,  you  know  that 
I  am  an^ry  with  you." 

"  What'for?"" 

"  I  hear  that  you  have  l>egun  to  ])raise  Georges 
Sand  again.  She  's  out  of  date,  and  that  's  all 
there  is  about  it!     How  Is  it  i)ossible  to  compare 

116 


1  A'l'IIKHS   AM)   (  II1IJ)HK\ 

her  with  ImiktsomI  SIk'  has  no  idias  wiiatt-vcr 
as  to  educatioii,  or  pliysiolonry,  or  aiiylhin«4'.  I  am 
foiiviiicc'd  that  she  luvir  e\(.ii  Inai'd  of  ciiihry- 
olo^y;  and  in  our  tinie-  how  can  you  «4rt  alon<»- 
without  that?  "  (  Kvdoksiya  even  Hun^-  licr  hands 
apart.)  "  iVkh,  \\hat  a  wonderful  article  Klisye- 
vitch  has  ^\■l•ittl■n  on  thai  suhject!  Tie  is  a  tal- 
ented ,i»entlenian/'  (K\(16ksiya  eonstanth'  used 
the  woid  "gentleman"  instead  of  "num.")  — 
"  Bazaroff ,  sit  down  heside  me  on  the  divan.  Per- 
haps you  do  not  know  that  I  am  frightfully  afraid 
of  you." 

"  Why  so,  permit  me  to  incjuire." 

"  You  are  a  (lan<>'erous  <4entleman ;  you  are  such 
a  critic.  .\kh,  m\-  (iod!  I  am  ridiculous,  1  am 
talking-  like  some  landed  pi()|)i-ietress  on  the 
steppe.  However,  I  really  am  a  landed  [)r()prie- 
tress.  1  manage  my  o\vn  estate,  and  just  imag- 
ine! my  sn])erintendent.  Krofei,  is  a  wonderful 
type,  just  like  Coo])ei-'s  Tathfinder:  there  is  some- 
thing direct  ahout  him.  I  ha\  e  settled  down  here 
foi-  good.  The  town  is  intolerahle,  is  n't  it:*  l?nt 
wluit  is  one  to  do?  " 

"  The  town  is  just  like  the  a\eraue  town."  —  re- 
marked  liazaroff  coolly. 

"  >M1  the  interests  are  so  ])etty,  — tlial  is  what  is 
.so  dreadful !  I  used  to  li\e  in  Moscow  (luiinu"  the 
winter  .  .  .  hut  now  my  s|)ouse.  M'sieu  Kukshin, 
lives  tliere.   And  tlu-n.  too.  Mosc(jw  is  now   .   .   .    1 

117 


FATIIKKS   AM)  CIIJLDKKX 

don't  know  what,  — but  not  what  it  sliould  be.  1 
think  of  going  abroad;  1  was  on  the  very  point 
of  going  last  year." 

"To  Paris,  of  course?  "  —  asked  BazarofF. 

"  To  Paris,  and  to  Heidelberg." 

"Why  toll  ei(lel})ergr' 

"  Good  gracious!  —  why,  Bunsen  is  tliere." 

BazarofF  found  no  answer  to  this. 

"  Pierre  Sa2:)6zhnikofF  ...  do  you  know  him?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not." 

"Good   gracious!  — Pierre    SapozhnikofF  .  . 
he  's  forever  at  Lydie  KhostatofF's  house." 

"  I  do  not  know  her,  eitlier." 

"  Well,  he  ofFered  to  escort  me.  Thank  God, 
1  am  free,  I  have  no  children.  .  .  What  was  that 
I  said:  thank  God!— However,  it  makes  no  dif- 
ference." 

Evdoksiya  rolled  a  cigarette  with  her  fingers 
which  were  stained  brown  with  tobacco,  passed 
her  tongue  across  it,  sucked  it,  and  lighted  it.  A 
maid-servant  entered  with  a  tray. 

"Ah,  here  is  breakfast!  Will  you  have  some 
appetiser?  Victor,  uncork  the  bottle.  That  's  iu 
your  line." 

"  It  is,  it  is," — muj-mured  SitnikofF,  and  again 
he  laughed  shrilly. 

"Are  there  ]n-etty  women  here?" — in(|uired 
BazarofF,  as  he  (h-ained  liis  tliird  glass. 

"  Yes,"  — replied  Evdoksiya:-"  but  they  are 
all  sucli  empty-headed  things.     Vnv  Instance,  man 

118 


1  A  Til  l':US    AM)   (II  I  LDUKN 

u/fiic.  Madaiiu  ( )(lirit/.(>fr,  isn't  bad-looking. 
It  's  a  pity  that  ini-  itpuiatioii  is  rather  ....  Hut 
thiit  would  he  nothing",  ordy  sIk.-  lias  no  freedom 
of  views,  MO  i)readth,  no  ....  yon  Ufiow  wliat. 
The  whole  system  ol"  edueation  must  he  ehan^ed. 
I  ha\e  alread\'  ;>i\«'n  thouiiht  to  that  suhjcet:  our 
women  are  vei-y  hadly  hi'on^iit  up." 

^'ou  ean  do  nothing'  with  them."  -inter[)o,se(l 
Sitnikoif".  -  ■  One  must  .seoin  them,  and  I  do 
.seorn  them,  wholly  and  eompletely!  "  (The  j)os- 
sibility  of  seornin^'  atid  expressing  his  seorn  was 
a  mo.st  a«ireeahle  sensation  for  Sftiiikoff :  he  at- 
taeked  uoiik  ii  In  i)ai"tieulai'.  \vIthout  a  suspielon 
that,  a  tew  months  later,  he  was  doomed  to  eriii<re 
hei'ore  his  own  \\ife,  merely  heeause  she  had  l)een 
horn  a  Princess  Dnrdoleosoff. ) — "  Xot  one  of 
them  has  e\er  heen  in  a  condition  to  comprehend 
our  conversation;  not  one  of  them  Is  worth  it  — 
that  we,  serious  men,  should  talk  about  her!  " 

"  A\u\  they  have  no  need  whatever  to  compie- 
hend  our  conversation,"  —  said   Ha/arof!'. 

"Of     whom     arc      you     speaking^"  —  j)ut     in 
Kvdnksiya. 

'^  ( )f  |)i'etty  women." 

"What'      .So     you      share      the      oj)inion      of 
Prud'hon  '  " 

lia/aroff  dre\\  himseir  u|)  hauj^htily.      "  I  shai'c 
no  one  s  opinions :  I  lia\  c  my  o\\  ii." 

"Down   with  authoi'ityl'       shouted    Sitnik(dl", 
dclinhtcd  al    llu'  opportiniity   to  ixpress  himscH" 


FATIIKKS  AND  CHILDREN 

luirslily  ill  the  presence  of  a  man  licfore  wlioiii  he 
cringed. 

'•  Rut  ]Macauhiy  liimsell'  .  .  ."  began  Madame 
Kukshi'n.   .  . 

"Down  witli  ^Maeauhiy!  "  —  thundered  Sitni- 
kofF. — "  Do  you  stand  u])  for  those  mean  peasant 
women?  " 

"  Xot  for  the  ])easant  women,  but  for  the  rights 
of  women,  whom  1  have  sworn  to  defend  to  the 
last  drop  of  my  blood." 

"  Down  with  them!"  — But  here  Sitnikoff  came 
to  a  halt.  —  "  But  I  do  not  deny  them,"  — said  he. 

"  Yes,  I  see  that  you  are  a  Slavyano])hil!  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  a  Slavyanophil,  although,  of 
course  .  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!  You  are  a  Slavyanophil! 
You  are  the  continuer  of  "  The  Houscliold  Regu- 
lations.' '  You  ought  to  have  a  whip  in  your 
hand." 

"  A  whi])  is  a  good  thing,"  —  remarked  Baza- 
roff :  "  but  here  we  have  got  to  the  last  dro])s.  .  ." 

"  Of  what?  "—interrupted  Evdoksiya. 

"  Of  tlie  c]iam])agne,  most  respected  Avdotya 
Xikitishna,  — of  the  eliam])agne  —  not  of  your 
blood." 

"  I  cannot  listen  with  indifference  when  you 
attack   women," — went   on    Evdoksiya.  — "  It  is 

1  "The  Doinostroy"  ("The  House  Ue^riilator ":  or,  "The  Honse- 
liold  Re)jfijl;iti()ns  "h  nimlcd  to  he  h\  Priest  Sylvester,  tlie  fiiinoiis 
Confessor  of  Ivan  the  Terrilile  in  his  youth.  Its  |treee|)ts  eonei-rnin^r 
women  and  their  treatment  are  of  patriarehal  rigour- —Thaxsi.atok. 

1'20 


lA  rii  IMS  AM)  c  II  iLi)in-:\ 

(liradful.  (licM(ll'ul.  Instead  of  attacking-  them, 
yon  had  hcttei-  read  Mic-Jielet's  '  1  )e  V  Anionr.' 
It  's  wo!i(lerl'nlI     (ientleniiii.  let  us  talk  of  love," 

added  lM(l('»Usi\  a.  Ian<4nidly  di'o|)|)ing'  her  hand 
on  the  ei-nm))led  |)ill<)\\  of  (hi-  divan. 

A  sndden  silenee  ensued.  -"  No,  why  talk 
al)out  lovef" — remarked  Ha/;irof!':  "hut  you 
mentioned  Madame  Odfut/ofK  a  while  ai»'o- 1  he- 
lievi-  that  is  what  xou  ealUd  hei-:'  \\']u)  is  that 
lady^' 

"  iV  eharmin^',  ehannin^-  creature!"  scjueaked 
Sitnikoft*.  "  1  will  introduce  you.  She  is  clever, 
wealthx",  a  w  idow.  Unfortunately,  she  is  not  yet 
sufficiently  developed.  She  ought  to  become  more 
intimately  ae(|uainted  with  our  Kvdoksiya.  I 
drink  to  your  health.  IJiido.vic!  T.et  us  clink 
^•lasses!  ■  Kt  toe.  et  tin-tin-tin.  Kt  toe.  et  toe,  et 
tin-tin-tin  I  "  "\   .   .   . 

"  A"iet(')r.  you  ai'c  a  scapegrace." 

lireakf'ast  lasted  a  long  time.  The  first  hottle 
of  champagne-  was  followed  hy  a  second,  a  thii-d, 
and  even  a  foiu'th.  .  .  .  Kvdoksiya  chattered  in- 
cessantly; Sitnikofi'  seconded  her.  They  talked 
a  great  deal  on  th(-  subjects:  what  is  man-iage — 
a  j)rejudiee  or  a  crime  f  and  liow  are  j)eople  Ixirn 
-all  alik(-  oi  not  f  and  in  what,  precisely,  does 
individuality  consist?  At  last,  tlu-  discussion 
reached  a  point  where  Kvdoksiya.  all  flushed  crim- 
son with  the  wine  she  had  dru?ik,  and  lapj)ing 
the  k(-ys  (>('  -i  discordant  ]>ianfi  with  hci-  flat  n.-uls. 

1-Jl 


FATIIKHS   AM)   C  HILDHKX 

began  to  sing,  at  first  gipsy  songs,  then  the  ro» 
mance  of  Seymour-Schiff,  "  Sleepy  Granada 
shnnbers  ":  and  Sitnikoff  bound  up  his  liead  witli 
a  scarf  and  rei)resented  the  dying  lover,  at  tiic 
words: 

"And  melt  my  mouth  witli  tliinr 
In  :i  buniini;'  kiss. "" 

At  last  Arkcidy  could  endure  it  no  longer. 
"  Gentlemen,  this  has  come  to  resemble  Bedlam," 
he  remarked  aloud.  Eaziiroff,  who  had  only  in- 
terjected a  sneering  word  now  and  then  into  the 
conversation,  — he  was  mainly  occupied  with  the 
champagne,  — yawned  loudly,  rose,  and  without 
taking  leave  of  the  hostess,  went  away,  in  com- 
pany with  Arkady.     Sitnikoff  rushed  after  them. 

"  Well,  wliat  do  you  think,  — well,  what  do  you 
think?"  — he  kept  asking,  obsequiously  running 
now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left:  —  "  did  n't  I  tell 
you  she  's  a  remarkable  })erson !  We  ought  to 
have  more  women  of  that  soi-t!  In  her  way,  she 
is  a  higlily-moral  ])lienomenon." 

"  i\nd  is  that  establishment  of  /////  father  a 
moral  plienomenon  also?  "  —  said  Bazaroff,  jerk- 
ing his  finger  in  tlie  direction  of  a  dram-shop 
which  they  were  passing  at  the  moment. 

Again  Sitnikoff  emitted  a  squealing  laugh. 
He  was  very  much  ashamed  of  his  origin,  and  did 
not  know  whether  to  feel  flattered  or  insulted  by 
Bazaroff's  unexpectedly  addressing  him  as  thou, 

]  '2-2 


XI\' 

A  KKW  (lays  later  [\\v  hall  caiiK-  off  at  tiu'  (iov- 
criioi-'s.  Mat\  yci  Hitch  was  tlu-  fcal  "  lici'o  oi'  Hit' 
f'esli\al  ";  the  Marshal  ol'  Xohility  lor  tht'  (iov- 
ernnieiit  annoiinc'cd  to  all  and  suiulrv  that  he  liad 
come  especially  out  of  respect  for  liini,  and  the 
Governor,  even  at  the  hall,  even  although  lie  still 
remained  impassive,  continued  to  "  issue  orders." 
Matvyei  Hitch's  softness  of  manner  was  equalled 
only  hy  his  stateliness.  lie  flattered  e\  ery 
one  — some  with  a  touch  of  i'astidiousness,  others 
with  a  touch  of  res])ect;  he  lavished  his  attentions 
upon  the  ladies,  "  ni  rrai  chevalier  fran^'ais,"  and 
laughed  incessantly,  with  a  ringing,  isolated 
laugh,  as  was  hefitting  a  dignitary.  He  slapped 
Arkady  on  the  hack,  and  loudly  called  him  his 
"dear  little  nephew":  confeii'cd  upon  Ha/aroft', 
who  was  dressed  in  a  rather  old  dress  suit,  a  pi'c- 
occupied  Iiut  condescending,  sidelong  glance 
acr»)ss  his  cheek,  and  an  uninteHigihle  hut  coui'- 
teous  hellow  .  in  w  hich  the  ojdv'  sounds  distiuii'uish- 
ahle  were  "  I  and  "  ssina  ':  ga\e  one  finger  to 
Si'tnikof!'.  and  smiled  at  him.  hut  \\ith  his  liead 
already  tm-ned  away:  e\cn  to  M.-idame  Kukshin, 
wlio  made  hei"  appearance  at  the  hall  w  ithout  au\' 

I  L'a 


FATHERS  AND  CIULDKEX 

crinoline  wliatever,  and  in  dirty  gloves,  but  with 
a  bird  of  paradise  in  her  hair,— even  to  ]Madame 
Kukshin  lie  said  "  Tjuchautc."  There  was  a  mul- 
titude of  people,  and  of  eavaliers  there  was  no 
lack;  the  civilians  chiefly  congregated  along  the 
wall,  but  the  niilitary  men  danced  assiduously, 
especially  one  of  them  who  had  spent  six  weeks 
in  Paris,  where  he  had  learned  divers  audacious 
exclamations,  such  as:  "Zut,"  "  ^IJi  jichtrrrc," 
"  Pst,  pst,  mon  h'lhi''  and  so  forth.  He  pro- 
nounced them  to  perfection,  with  genuine  Pa- 
risian chic,  and,  at  the  same  time,  he  said  "  si 
j'auj'ais  "  instead  of  "  -s7  j'avais,"  "  ahsolument  " 
in  the  sense  of  "without  fail";  in  a  word,  ex- 
pressed himself  in  that  Great  Russian-French 
dialect  at  which  the  French  laugh  so  heai'tily 
when  they  are  under  no  necessity  to  assure  us  that 
we  speak  their  language  like  angels  —  ''  commc  dcs 
angcs." 

^Vrkiidy  danced  l)adly.  as  we  already  know,  and 
BazjirofF  did  not  dance  at  all:  both  of  them  en- 
sconced themselves  in  a  corner,  where  Sitnikoff 
joined  them.  AVith  a  sneering  smile  depicted  on 
his  face,  and  emitting  venomous  comments,  he 
stared  insolently  around,  iind  seemed  to  be  gen- 
uinely enjoying  himself.  All  at  once,  his  face 
anderMent  a  change,  and  turning  to  Arkady,  he 
said,  as  though  discomfited:  "Madame  Odint- 
zoff  has  arrived." 

^Vrkady  looked  about  him,  and  descried  a  ^vo- 

1-24. 


fa'iiii<:hs  AM)  c  iiiLDin^y 

iiuni  ot*  lofty  statui-f,  in  a  hlack  ^onvii,  who  was 
staiMlin^r  at  \\\v  door  oC  tlic  hall.  She  imj)rcssc(l 
hii)i  hy  the  (li^Dity  of  \\vr  carria^-c.  Tier  ])are 
arms  Imii^-  hcaiiti fully  aloii"'  Iki-  stately  fi|^iii-t'; 
li^ht  sj)i-ays  of  fuchsia  fi-lK  alon«4-  with  licr  oleani- 
iiio'  hair.  ii|)on  hci-  sloj)iii<)-  shonhk-i-s:  ]\vv  l)rioht 
cyrs  ^a/c'd  calmly  and  intcllio'cntly  —  that  was  ex- 
actly it.  calmly,  not  thon«iht fully  from  beneath 
her  somewhat  o\  erhan<>ino-  white  l)row,  and  her 
lips  were  wreathed  in  a  barely  ])erce|)tible  smile, 
A  sort  of  soft,  caressing  force  emanated  fi-om  her 
face. 

"Do  you  know  her?  "~ -Arkadv  asked   Sitni- 

kofr. 

*'  Intimately.  AVould  you  like  to  have  me  in- 
tioduce  you?  " 

"  Pray  do  ....   after  this  (juadrille." 

Ha/aroff  also  turned  his  attention  to  ^ladame 
Odint/oft'. 

"  A\'hat  sort  of  a  figure  is  that?"— he  said.— 
'  She  does  not  resemble  the  othei-  women." 

I  laving  awaited  the  end  of  the  (juadrille.  Sitni- 
kotr  led  .tVi-kady  up  to  Madame  Odi'ntzoft';  but  he 
did  not  seem  to  be  intimately  ac(|uainted  with  her, 
and  got  tangled  up  in  his  speech,  and  she  stared 
at  him  in  some  sur])rise.  lint  her  face  assumed  a 
cordial  expression  when  slu'  heard  Arkady's  sur- 
name. She  asked  him  whether  he  was  not  the  son 
of  Xikolai  Petrovitch:' 


1  cs. 


1 2.5 


KATIIKHS   AM)   ClIILDin'A 

"  I  have  seen  your  father  a  couple  of  times;  and 
I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  him,"  — she  con- 
tinued;—" I  am  very  glad  to  make  your  acquain- 
tance." 

At  that  moment,  some  adjutant  or  other  flew 
11 1)  to  her.  and  iinited  her  for  a  quadrille.  She 
accepted. 

"Do  you  dance?  "-aslvcd  xVrkady  respect- 
fully. 

"  Yes.  But  what  makes  you  think  that  I  do 
not?    Is  it  that  I  seem  to  you  too  old?  " 

"Good  gracious,  liow  can  you!  ...  In  tliat 
case,  permit  me  to  invite  you  for  the  nuwurka." 

]Madame  Odintzoff  smiled  graciously.  "  Very 
well,"  — she  said,  and  looked  at  Arkady,  not  ex- 
actly with  condescension,  but  as  married  sisters 
look  at  very  youthful  brotliers.  ^ladame  Odin- 
tzoff  was  a  little  older  than  Arkadv,  — she  was 
nine-and-twenty,  —  but  in  her  presence  he  felt 
himself  a  school -boy,  a  student,  as  though  the  dif- 
ference of  years  between  them  were  much  greater, 
^latvyei  I'litcli  a})])roached  her  with  a  majestic 
mien  and  obsequious  speeches.  Arkady  stepped 
to  one  side,  but  continued  to  observe  her:  he  never 
took  his  eyes  from  her  during  the  entire  course  of 
the  quadrille.  She  chatted  with  her  partner  as  un- 
constrainedly  as  with  the  dignitary;  she  moved 
her  head  and  eyes  softly,  and  laughed  softly  a 
couple  of  times.  Her  nose,  as  is  the  case  with 
most  Kussinns,  was  rather  tliick,  and  lier  coni- 

1  -Jf) 


rATJII'Jrs    AM)   C  IIILDKKX 


pk'xioM  N\a.s  not  prrftrtly  cKar:  iiotu  illistaiidiri^- 
this,  Aikiidy  luadc  iij)  iiis  iiiiiid  that  he  liad  luvi-i- 
vet  met  so  channiii^  a  woman.  The  sound  of  lier 
\'oiee  (hd  not  (|uit  his  eai's:  it  seemed  as  thont^li 
tlie  xcTN'  folds  oC  Ik  T  o-ow  n  fell  (h  llVrently  tVoni 
thosi'  nf  otiur  women,  in  hi'oader,  more  stalely 
wise,  and  lier  moM-ments  were  |)ai"tieidaily  IIons- 
in<4-  and  natui'al.  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

Ai'kady  I'elt  a  eertain  timidity  at  heart  when, 
at  the  first  sounds  of*  the  ma/,ni-ka,'  he  seated  liim- 
.self  hy  the  side  of  his  lady.  and.  [)repariii«i'  to 
enter  into  eonvei'.sation,  merely  pa.s.sed  liis  hand 
over  liis  hair,  and  could  find  not  a  sin«»'le  word  to 
say.  Hut  he  did  ?iol  remain  cjuakin*^'  and  agitated 
Ion*;';  Madame  Odint/.off's  composure  eommuni- 
eate{l  itself  to  him:  a  (|uai"ter  of  an  honr  liad  not 
ehipsed  hefore  lie  was  tellinj^'  her  ahout  his  lather, 
his  uncle,  life  in  Petershurg  -uid  in  die  country. 
Madame  ( )dint/,off' listened  to  him  with  polite  in- 
terest, lightly  opening  and  shutting  her  fan;  his 
chit-chat  cea.sed  wlien  cavaliers  led  hei-  out:  Si'tni- 
koff',  among  others,  inxited  her  twice.  She  re- 
tui'ued.  sal  down  again,  took  up  hei-  fan.  and  \uv 
])osom  did  not  excii  lira\c  more  ra|)idly.  while  Av- 
kiuly  hegan  again  to  chattel',  all  |)ermeated  with 
ha|)piness  to  find  himself  neai-  lier,  to  talk  with 
her,  ga/ing  into  hei'  lyes,  at  her  luanlifid  hrow. 
.•il    the  whole  of  li«  r   Inxcly.  dignified,  and   elc\cr 

'  Tlif  iii:i/iirk;i  >frr;»lly  rr.scinlilcs  flir  cotillnii:  Inil  (iifTcrs  in  fhr 
■'ttiiin.'itrd,  i;rni"<-)iil  sirp  |ir<'nli.ir  f<>  il.  .-iiid  its  spirited  iiUmuInn,  whrn 
prujurly  d.iiuTii.      'I  hax.si  aidh. 


FATIIKKS   AM)  CHILDREN 

countenance.     Slie  lierself  talked  little,  but  know- 
ledge of  life  A\as  revealed  in  her  words;  from  some 
of  her  remarks.  Arkadv  inferred  that  this  vouni'' 
woman    had    already    succeeded    in    feeliu"'    and 
thinking  a  great  deal.   .  .  . 

"  Who  was  that  you  were  standing  with,"  — 
she  asked  him,  — "  when  ]Mr.  Sftnikoff  led  you  up 
to  me?  " 

"  Did  vou  notice  him:'  ''  —  asked  ^Vrkadv  in  liis 
turn.  — "  He  has  a  s])len(lid  face,  has  n't  he?  He 
is  a  certain  BazarofJ".  my  friend." 

xVrkady  began  to  talk  about  "  his  friend." 

He  talked  about  him  in  such  detail,  and  with 
such  enthusiasm,  that  ^ladame  Odfntzoff  turned 
toward  him,  and  looked  attentively  at  him.  In 
the  meantime,  the  mazurka  was  di"awing  to  its 
close.  Arkadv  was  sorrv  to  ])art  from  his  hidv: 
he  had  passed  about  an  hoiu-  so  pleasantly  witli 
her!  To  tell  the  truth,  during  the  whole  course 
of  that  time  he  had  constantly  felt  as  thouoh  she 
were  condescending  to  him,  as  though  he  ought  to 
be  grateful  to  her  .  .  .  but  young  hearts  are  not 
oppressed  by  that  feeling. 

The  music  st<)|)ped.  "  Mcrci,  " — said  IMadame 
Odi'ntzoff,  risi?ig.  — "  Vou  liave  promised  to  call 
on  me:  bring  your  friend  with  you.  I  have  a 
great  curiosity  to  see  a  man  who  lias  the  boldness 
not  to  believe  in  anything." 

The  Governor  a|)])roachcd  ^ladamc  Odi'ntzofr. 
armounced  tjial   suj)per  was  I'eady,  and,  with  a 

128 


FATII  VMS    AM)   (  1111,1  )1{K\ 


careworn  coinitriiancr.  ofl'ircd  lu  r  liis  arm.  As 
sIk'  walked  a\\a\.  slie  tinned  lonnd  lo  bestow  a 
lasl  smile  and  nod  on  Aik.idy.  lie  liowcd  low, 
«^'a/e(l  altti"  her  (  liow  siendc  i-  lu  i'  liL^nre  seemed  to 
Iiini.  hatlied  in  the  oreyish  hisire  ol"  the  l)laek 
silk!),  and  thinlNin<4\  ''  At  tliis  moment  slie  has  al- 
I'eadx'  i'()r<>"otten  my  existence.  "  he  I'ell  mi  his 
soul  a  sort  of*  e\(|uisite  sul)mission.    .   .   . 

Well,  what  now  !*  "  —  lia/aroft' asked  Arkady, 
as  soon  as  the  latter  I'etni'ned  to  him  in  his  eoi-ner. 

I  last  thon  had  |)lcasMi-<' :■  A  n'cntleman  has 
just  hecn  telling-  me  that  that  lady  oi.  oV,  oV;  hut, 
apparently,  the  «4entleman  is  a  tool.  AN'ell,  and, 
in  thy  opinion,  what  is  she.      I'callv  '  oi.  oi.  o'l  V" 

I  do  not  in  the  least  understand  that  defini- 
tion,"—replied  Ark/idy. 

'I'he  ideal     What  innocence!" 

In  that  case.  I  do  not  understand  your  frentlc- 
man.  Madame  Odnit/otr  is  \cry  loxcly.  that  is 
in(lis])utal)le.      l>nt  she  heais  lu  isell'  so  coldly  and 

strictly,  that 

"Still  waters  .  .  .  thou  kno\\est!  "  — ))ut  in 
liazjiroff'.  "  Thou  sayest  she  is  cold.  That  "s 
precisely  whei-e  the  savoui*  comes  in.  'I'liou  ait 
fond  of  ice-cream,  art  thou  not  ^  " 

■'  I'ei'haps."  stanunered  Aik;idy.  —  *'  I  cannot 
iudiic  as  to  that.  She  wishes  to  make  tliv  ae- 
(juaintance,  and  has  asked  me  to  hiiuLi'  thee  to 
lur." 

1    can   ImaLi'ine  how    Ihon   hast    deserihed   me; 

l'J<.» 


FATIIKKS    AM)   C'lIILDliFA 

However,  thou  liast  done  well.  Take  me.  What- 
ever she  may  be,  a  simple  provineial  lioness,  or 
an  '  cmaucipcc  '  after  the  style  of  ^ladame  Kuk- 
shi'n,  I  have  not  seen  sueii  shouhlers  as  liers  in  a 
lont^'  time." 

Ai'kjidy  wi'itlied  at  Ha/aroff's  eyiiieism:  and.  as 
ire(]nently  haj)pens.  he  reproved  liis  friend,  hut 
not  for  tlie  precise  thini>-  wliieli  he  did  not  like  in 
him.  .   .  . 

"  Why  ai't  not  thou  willing  to  admit  freedom 
of  thouglit  in  women?  " — he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  IV^cause.  l)iT)Hier,  according  to  my  observa- 
tions, only  the  monsters  among  women  think 
freely." 

At  tliis  the  conversation  terminated.  l^oWx 
young  men  went  away  immediately  after  supper. 
jNladame  Kukshin  laughed  beliind  tlieir  backs,  in 
a  nervously-venomous  way,  but  not  without  trep- 
idation :  her  vanity  had  been  profoundly  wounded 
by  the  fact  that  neither  of  them  had  paid  lier  any 
attention.  She  remained  later  than  any  one  else 
at  the  ])ali.  and  at  three  o'clock  in  tlie  morning 
danced  the  ])olka-ma'/nrka  with  Si'tnikofF,  in  the 
Parisian  style.  And  with  this  edifying  spectacle 
the  gubernatorial  festi\'al  wound  up. 


130 


XV 


IjI:'!'  u>s  sec  to  \\  liat  class  of  mammals  tlicse 
persons  Ih'Io?!^-."  said  Ha'/aroll'  lo  Aikady  on 
the  roIlowin«4-  day,  as,  in  compaiiy  with  him,  he  as- 
i-eiided  the  stairs  oC  thi'  hotel  in  whieli  Ma(himc 
( )dii)t/.()fr  was  stoj)j)iii<i-.  — ''  My  nose  scents  out 
that  everything-  is  nol  (|witc  as  it  shonld  he." 

I  am  amazed  at  thee!  " — exclaimed  .\rkady. 

W'hatf  'IMioii.  tlioii.  l^azarof!'.  art  wedded  to 
that  nari'ow   moi'ality  which " 

What  a  (jucer  I'cllow  Ihouai't!"  interrupted 
Hazjiroft'  carelessly.  "  Is  it  |)ossihlc  that  thou 
dost  not  know  that  in  oin-  jargon,  and  with  the 
like  of"  us,  '  not  <juite  as  it  should  he  '  siuiiififs  '  a.s 
it  should  he  "'  It  means  tlurc  is  S()mcthin<!-  to  he 
^•ained  out  of"  it.  Didst  not  thou  thyscll'  sa\'  to- 
day that  siic  had  married  stranjicU  ^ -althouu'lK 
in  my  opinion,  lo  maiiy  a  wralthx  old  man  is  not 
at  all  a  sti'an^^e  afl'aii".  hut,  on  the  contiarx,  sen- 
sible. I  do  not  hcliexc  the  tow  n  gossip:  hnt  1  like 
to  think,  as  our  cultured  (Governor  says,  that  it 
is  just." 

Arkady  niad<'  no  rcplx  and  knocked  at  the  door 
of  the  room.  A  yonn;^'  tootman  in  li\'erv  con- 
tluctcd  hotli  I'ncnds  inl<»a  larnc  rooni,  hadlx'  I'nr- 

l.'U 


FATIIEKS  AND  CIllI.DUEN 

iiished,  like  all  rooms  in  Russian  hotels,  but  tilled 
witli  flowers.  ^ladanie  Odintzoff  soon  made  her 
appearanee  in  a  simple  morning  gown.  She 
seemed  still  younger,  in  the  light  of  tlie  spring- 
sunshine.  ^Arkady  presented  Bazaroff'  to  lier,  and 
observed,  with  secret  surprise,  that  the  latter  ap- 
peared to  be  disconcerted,  while  JNladame  Odin- 
tzoiF  remained  perfectly  tranquil,  as  on  the  pre- 
ceding evening.  Bazaroff  himself  felt  that  lie 
was  confused,  and  he  grew  vexed.  "  There  thou 
goest!— thou  art  afraid  of  a  woman!"  he 
thought ;  and  lolling  in  an  arm-chair,  in  a  manner 
quite  equal  to  Sitnikoff's,  he  began  to  talk  with 
exaggerated  freedom,  while  ]Madame  Odintzoff 
never  took  her  bright  eves  off  him. 

Anna  Sergyeevna  Odfntzoff  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Sergyei  Xikolaeviteh  J^okteff.  a  famous 
beauty,  speculator,  and  gamblei-,  who,  after  hav- 
ing held  out  and  bi-awled  for  fifteen  years  in  Pe- 
tersburg and  Moscow,  had  ended  by  utterly  ruin- 
ing himself  at  cards,  and  being  compelled  to  settk' 
down  ill  the  country,  where,  however,  he  speedily 
died,  leaving  a  diminutive  j)r()perty  to  his  two 
daughters,  iViina,  aged  twenty,  and  Katerina, 
aged  twelve  years.     Their  mother,  from  the  |)()v- 

erty-strickeii   race  of  llie   l^rinces  X had 

died  in  Petersbin-g  while  her  husband  was  still  in 
full  feather.  The  position  of  Anna,  after  her 
father's  deatli,  was  very  ])ainful.  The  brilliant 
education  which  she  had  received  in  Petersbuig 

Vi2 


FA  rill'Jrs    AM)   (  IIIIJ)KK\ 

liad  not  j)rt'j)ar<.'(l  lui-  for  tlu-  endurance  of  cures 
connected  w  ith  liousekee[)in<»'  and  the-  liouse,  —  for 
dnil  country  Id'c.  She  knew  positively, no  one  in 
the  whole  nei<^hhourlioo(l,  and  had  no  one  \\\[\] 
whom  fo  lake  eonnscl.  \\r\  falher  had  endea\- 
oured  h)  a\()id  I'elaliotis  wilh  the  tiei^^hhoni's :  he 
scorned  thiin  and  Ihey  scorned  him.  each  after 
his  fashion.  But  she  did  not  lose  hei-  liead,  and 
iniinediately  w  i-otc  to  hei'  mother's  sistei',  Princess 

A\(lotya  .Ste])ano\  na   X a  malicious  and 

conceited  old  woman,  who.  when  she  settled 
(low  n  in  hi  r  nieces'  house,  a|)|)i()j)riate(l  to  herself 
tlic  hest  I'ooms.  ^rumhled  and  ^rowkd  fi'oni 
moi"nin<4'  till  ni^ht,  and  ne\er  walked,  even  in  the 
«j:arden.  otherwise  than  attended  1)\  her  solitary 
.serf,  a  surh"  laeke\-  in  a  threadhare,  vellowish-"rev 
livery,  with  hlue  galloons  and  a  thi'ee-cornered 
hat.  Anna  j)atiently  endured  all  hei-  aunts 
whims,  occui)ied  herself  somewhat  with  her  sis- 
ter's education,  and,  a|)|)arently,  had  already  rec- 
onciled herself  to  the-  idea  of  withering"  awa\-  in 
the  wilds.  .  .  .  Hut  fate  decreed  ditrercritly  foi- 
her.  A  C(  i-tain  Odi'nt/.off  saw  her  hy  accident,  a 
very  rich  man  of  six-and-forty,  an  eceeni  lie.  a  h\  - 
])ochon(lriac.  |)lnin|).  Iiea\y.  and  sour,  hut  not 
stuj)i(l.  and  not  l)ad-teiii|)ei-ed  :  he  fell  in  loxc  with 
hei*,  and  ofVei'ed  her  his  hand.  She  eniiseiiled  to 
Ih'  his  wife.  —  and  he  li\cd  w  illi  her  six  \-eai"s.  then 
died,  having-  he(iueatli((l  his  entii-e  j)i'o|)ei-t\  to 
her.      Anna   .Sei-n-vee\  ni   did   no!   I<a\c  the  eonn- 

I  :\:) 


FATIIKKS    AM)   CIIILDHKA' 

try  at  all,  for  about  a  year  after  his  death;  then 
she  and  her  sister  went  abroad,  but  sojourned  only 
in  Germany:  she  was  bored,  and  returned  to  re- 
side  in  her  beloyed  Xikolskoe.  whieh  was  situated 
about  foi'ty  ycrsts  from  the  town  of  *  *  *.  Tliere 
she  had  a  ma^'niticeut.  ^^  ell-furnished  house,  and 
a  ])eautifiil  ])ark.  with  liotliouses:  the  late  Odin- 
t/oif  liad  denied  himself  n()thin<^".  ^Vnna  Ser- 
^•yeeyna  yery  rarely  made  her  appearance  in 
town,  and  then  chiefly  on  business,  and  that  not 
for  long.  She  was  not  liked  in  the  (ioyernment; 
their  had  been  a  <^reat  outeiy  over  her  marriage 
with  Odint/off ;  all  sorts  of  idle  tales  wei'e  nar- 
rated about  hei":  it  was  asserted  that  she  had  aided 
her  father  in  his  cheating  scra])es,  that  she  had 
not  gone  abi'oad  without  a  cause,  compelled 
thereto  to  conceal  the  unfortunate  consequences 
.  .  .  .  "You  understand  of  what?"  —  the  in- 
dignant narrators  were  wont  to  wind  up.— 
"  She  has  been  through  fire  and  water,"  they 
said  of  her;  and  the  familiar  goyernmental  wit 
generally  added:  "  and  through  brass  trum])ets." 
All  these  comments  reached  her;  but  she  let  them 
pass:  she  had  a  iv^tit  and  rather  decided 
character. 

Madame  Odfntzoff  sat,  leaning  against  the 
back  of  her  arm-chaii-.  and,  clasping  her  liands, 
she  listened  to  J^azaroff .  Contrary  to  his  wont,  he 
talked  a  good  deal,  and  eyidently  made  efforts  to 

134 


1  A'riii.us  AM)  c  iiiLi)in:\ 

iiilfic'sl  liis  ink  rlociilor,  which  a^aiii  surprised 
Arkady.  He  coidd  not  make  up  his  mind  w  hellicr 
Ma/aroir  was  altaiiiiii*''  his  ohjcct  oi-  not.  It  was 
<hf!i('ull  to  (li\  ini-  IVoni  Anna  Sc'r«4vec'vna"s  lace 
wha*  iin|)i"(.'ssi()ns  sl)c  was  rcfi'i\inL»":  it  |)iTsri'\od 
oFK'  and  the  saini'  (•\|))'(ssion.  coniMcons.  iH'fincd: 
hvv  l)i'anlirul  cncs  hianicd  with  attention,  hut  un- 
l)erturl)e(l  attention.  Hazarofl's  airs  (hu'in^"  tiie 
first  inoineiits  ol'  his  \  isit  liad  acted  unpleasantly 
on  her.  like  a  had  siiieil  or  a  hai'sh  sound;  l)ut  she 
iimnediately  eonipirheruU-d  that  he  was  sutreriiig' 
i'roin  confusion,  and  this  was  evi'ii  Hattcrin<^'  to 
her.  ()nly  the  coninionj)lace  repelled  her,  and  no 
one  coidd  ha\c  accused  Ha/.-ii-oH'  of  hein**"  coiu- 
nionplaci'.  It  was  Ai'kiidy's  late  to  he  kej)t  in  a 
constant  state  of  wonderment  on  that  day.  He 
had  anti<-ipated  that  Hazaroff  would  talk  to  Mad- 
ame Odintzoff',  as  she  \\as  a  ch\  ei-  woman  ol"  his 
convictions  and  views:  she  herself  had  expressed  a 
desire  to  listen  to  a  man  "  w  ho  has  the  audacity  to 
hcheve  in  nothing"':  hut.  instead  of  that,  Hazjiroff 
talked  of  medicine,  of  iiom(i'0|)alliy,  ol  hotany. 
It  turned  out  that  .Madame  Odinl/olf  had  not 
wasted  her  time  in  hei"  isolation:  she  had  I'cad  se\- 
cral  ""ood  hooks,  and  e\i)rcssed  herself  in  coi'i-ect 
liu.ssian.  .She  turned  the  convci'sation  on  music. 
hut  |)erceivin;4'  that  Ha/jiroff  did  not  i-eco<^'nise 
art,  she  (juictly  returned  to  hotany,  althou<;h  Ar- 
kady had  stalled  in  to  discuss  the  siLifnificajicc  of 


FAM^TTKRS   AM)   (  IIILDHF.X 

popular  melodies.  ]Madanie  Odintzoff  continued 
to  treat  him  like  a  younger  brother;  aj)parently, 
she  prized  in  him  the  goodness  and  simple-mind- 
edness of  youtli  — and  tliat  was  aU.  'Die  conver- 
sation lasted  more  than  three  hours,  leisurely, 
varied,  and  animated. 

At  last  the  friends  rose  and  began  to  take  leave. 
Anna  Sergyeevna  gazed  cordially  at  them,  of- 
fered each  of  them  her  beautiful,  white  hand,  and, 
after  brief  reflection,  she  said,  with  a  decided  but 
agreeable  smile:  —  "  If  you  are  not  afraid  of 
being  boi-ed,  gentlemen,  come  to  visit  me  at 
Xikolskoe." 

"  Keally,  iVnna  Sergyeevna,"— exclaimed  Ar- 
kady,—" I  shall  regard  it  as  a  special  happi- 
ness. .  .  ." 

"  And  you,  ^lonsieur  Bazaroff  ?  " 

Baziiroff  merelv  bowed, — and  Arkadv  was 
obliged,  for  the  last  time,  to  marvel:  he  liad  ob- 
served that  liis  friend  was  blusliing. 

"  Well?  "  —  said  he  to  liim  in  the  street:  —  "  art 
tliou  still  of  tlie  same  opinion,  that  slie  is — '  oi", 

Ol,  Ol     f 

"  Who  knows!  Thou  seest  how  she  froze  her- 
self!"—  retorted  ]5azaroff',  and,  after  a  ])ause. 
lie  added:  —  "A  duchess,  a  reigning  ])ersonage. 
All  she  needs  is  to  wear  a  train  })ehind  her  and  a 
crown  on  her  head." 

"  Our  duchesses  do  not  speak  llussian  lil<L 
that," — remarked  Arkadv. 

130 


FiVni  i:hs  and  c  ii  i  i.i)hi<:\ 


SIk'  lias  Ikh  II  made  oxer,  my  dear  fellow  :  sIk 
lias  caltii  our  hrcad/ 

And,    iic\  (.■rtlic'k's.s,   she    is   c-liaiiiiiii^,"  — said 
Arkady. 

'■  Such  a  rich  hodyl""  wtiit  on  Hn/.nmlV:  — 
"  she  iiiii^ht  ^'o  sti-ainht  into  the  aiiatoiiiieal 
theatre." 

■'  Sto|).  for  (iod's  sake,  K\neiiy!  Who  ever 
heard  the  like  1  ■■ 

Well,  don't  ^-et  an^ry,  softy.     T  have  said  it 

she  's  fii'sl  class.     Wv  must  <^()  to  her  house." 

••  \Vhenr" 

Why.  su])|)ose  we  make  it  the  day  after  to- 

monow  .     What  is  there  for  us  to  do  liere!    Drink 

champagne  with  ^ladame   Kukslifn?     listen  to 

thy  relati\e,  the  liheral  hi<4-w  i^^l'     So  let  's  flit  out 

tliere  the  day  after  to-nioriow.     Hy  the  way,  too, 

my   father's   little  manoi-house   is   not   i'ar    from 

there.     'I'hat     Xikolskoe    is    on    the    ***    road, 

IS  11  t   \{i 

1  es, 

"  Ojttinif.  There's  no  use  in  ]iesitatin«»';  only 
fools  hesitate -and  wise  men.  I  tell  thee:  t  is  a 
rieii  hody !   " 

'I'hree  (la\s  later,  holli  friends  wci'e  drl\in<«' 
along  the  j'oad  to  Xikolskoe.  Tlie  day  was  hiight, 
and  not  too  hot,  and  the  fat  ))ostin<>-h()rses  trotted 
briskly,  slightly  twitching  their  twisted  and 
])laited  tails.  Arkady  ga/ed  at  the  road,  and 
smiled,  w  illiout  himself  know  ing  why. 


FATHERS  AM)  CTlli.DKKX 

'•  Congratulate  me,"— exckiiiiied  IJazarott'  sud- 
denly,—"  to-day  is  the  twenty-second  of  June, 
the  day  of  my  guardian  angel.  Let  us  see  how- 
he  takes  care  of  me.  They  are  exi^ecting  me  at 
home  to-day,"  he  added,  lowering  his  voice.  .  .  . 
"  AVell.  let  them  wait;  it's  of  no  great  impor- 
tance! 


138 


XVT 

Tin:  nKiiior-lioust'  in  wliicli  dwell  Anna  St-i-- 
gyeevna  stood  on  a  slo[)ino-,()pcii  hill,  not  l"ar  Ironi 
a  yellow  stone  church  with  a  green  roof,  white 
])illars,  and  jin  al  fresco  paintin^-  ()\  ci-  the  ])rin- 
cipal  entrance,  repi-esenting  the  "  liesurrection 
of  Christ,"  in  the  "  Italian  "  taste.  Especially 
noteworthy  for  his  rounded  contours  was  a 
swarthy  warrior,  in  a  short  jacket,  who  sj)rawled 
over  the  foreground.  Behind  the  church,  in  two 
long  rows,  extended  tlie  village,  with  chiuinevs 
])eeping  ahove  the  straw  thatches  here  and  there. 
The  manor-house  was  spacious,  in  the  same  style 
M'ith  the  church  —  the  style  which  is  known  among 
us  by  the  name  of  the  Alexandrine;  this  house  also 
Mas  painted  yellow,  and  had  a  green  roof  an(I 
white  ])illars,  and  a  pediment  with  a  coat  of  arms. 
The  governmental  architect  had  erected  both 
buildings,  with  the  apjn'obation  of  the  deceased 
Odint/off".  who  could  not  tolerate  any  empty  and 
new-fangled  ca])rices,  as  he  expressed  it.  Close 
to  the  house  on  both  sides  lay  tiie  dusky  trits  of 
the  ancient  park;  an  avenue  ol'  cli[>pe(l  tirs  led 
to  the  entratice. 

Oui"  friends  wvvv  i-cccixcd  in  the  anteroom  by 


FATtlKHS   AM)   ('IIIM)HK\ 

two  robust  footmen  in  livery ;  one  of  tliem  imme- 
diately ran  for  the  butler.  The  butler,  a  fat  man 
in  a  blaek  dress-coat,  immediately  j)r(sriited  him- 
self, and  directed  tlie  guests  over  the  i-iig-coNcred 
staircase  to  a  special  room,  where  already  stood 
two  beds,  with  all  the  accessories  of  the  toilet.  It 
was  evident  that  order  reigned  in  the  liouse: 
everything  was  clean,  and  there  was  some  agree- 
able perfume  everywhere  about,  just  as  in  minis- 
terial receptions. 

"  Anna  Sergyeevna  begs  that  yoii  w  ill  come 
to  her  in  hall*  an  hour,"  —  announced  the  but- 
ler:—  "'have  you  no  orders  to  give  in  the  mean- 
while?" 

"  We  have  no  orders,  my  most  respected,"  — re- 
plied Baziiroff :  — "  unless  you  will  be  so  good  as 
to  bring  a  glass  of  vodka." 

"  I  obey,  sir,"  —  said  the  butler,  not  without  sur- 
prise, and  retired,  with  squeaking  boots. 

"What  grand  geniT! "—remnrked  Bazaroff: 
— "  1  believe  that  is  what  it  is  called  in  your  lan- 
guage? A  duchess,  and  that  's  all  there  is 
about  it." 

"A  good  duchess,"  — replied  Arkady;  — "  the 
very  first  time  she  met  such  mi<>htv  aristocrats  as 
thou  and  I,  she  invited  ns  to  her  house." 

"  Kspecially  I,  who  am  a  medical  man,  the  son 
of  a  medical  man,  the  grandson  of  a  cha?iter.  .  .  . 
Of  course  thou  knewest  that  I  am  the  grandson 
of  a  chanter?  " 

110 


FATHERS   A\l)  C'lIILDHKX 

"  Like  Speransky,"  ' — added  IJa/aroiV,  alUi-  a 
brief  silence  and  curling  his  li])s.  '*  15ut  slic  lias 
indulged  herself,  all  the  same;  okh,  liow  tliis  l;idy 
has  indulged  herself.  Ouglit  not  ^^(■  to  ditii  (nii- 
dress-suits?  " 

Arkady  merely  slirugged  liis  sliouhk'i's;  .  .  . 
hut  he,  too,  felt  some  agitation. 

Half  an  hour  later  RazarofF  and  Arkjidy  en- 
tered the  drawing-room.  It  was  a  spacious,  lofty 
room,  furnished  witli  considerable  luxury,  but 
without  any  particular  taste.  Tlie  heavy,  costly 
furniture  stood  in  the  customary  affected  order 
along  the  walls,  wliich  were  covered  with  light- 
brown  paper  witli  gilded  flowers.  Och'ntzoff  had 
ordered  it  from  ^loscow  tiirough  liis  friend  and 
commissioner,  a  li(iuor  deak'r.  Over  the  ceiitiai 
divan  hung  the  portrait  of  a  shrivelled,  fair-liaired 
man, — and  it  seemed  to  be  staring  at  the  \  isitors 
in  a  hostile  manner.  "  It  must  be  he,"  whispered 
BazarofF,  and  wrinkling  up  his  nose,  lie  added, 
"  Shan't  we  decamp?  " 

But  at  that  moment  the  hostess  eiileied.  She 
wore  a  light  barege  gown;  her  hair,  biuslud 
smoothly  behind  her  ears,  imi)arted  a  virginal  ex- 
pression to  her  ])ui'e,  fresh  face. 

"  Thank  you  for  having  kept  your  won!/'  she 
began;— "stay  a  while  with  me:  il  really  is  not 
had  here.     1  will  introduce  yon  to  my  sister:  she 

1  Speransky  rost;  to  be  a  Count,  and  a  MinisLr  of 
Alexander  I.— Thansiatoii. 


FATIIKUS   AND  CIIILDHEX 

plays  well  on  the  jjiano.  That  makes  no  differ- 
ence to  you,  M'sieu  Hazarort':  hut  I  think  you  are 
fond  of  music,  ^I'sieu  Kirsanotf :  in  addition  to 
my  sister,  m\-  old  aunt  li\es  with  me.  and  a  nei^h- 
houi-  sometimes  droj^s  in  to  play  cards:  that  is  our 
entire  society.     Hut  now   let  us  sit  down." 

Madame  Odintzoff  uttered  this  little  speech 
with  pecuhar  distinctness,  as  thouoh  she  had  com- 
mitted it  to  memory;  then  she  turned  to  Arkadv. 
It  appeared  that  her  mother  had  known  Arkady's 
mother,  and  had  even  heen  the  coniidante  of  her 
love  for  Nikolai  Petrovitch.  Arkady  began  to 
talk  with  fervour  about  the  dead  woman;  and.  in 
the  meantime,  Bazaroff  occupied  himself  with  in- 
specting the  albums.  "  What  a  meek  individual 
I  have  become,"  he  said  to  himself. 

A  handsome  greyhound,  with  a  blue  collar,  ran 
into  the  drawing-room,  clattering  his  claws  on  tlie 
floo]-,  and  after  him  entered  a  young  girl  of  eigh- 
teen, with  black  hair  and  browi'  com]dexion.  a 
rather  chubby  but  pleasing  face,  and  small  dai-k 
eyes.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  basket  filled  with 
flowers.  "  Ilej-e  is  my  Katya."  said  Madame 
Odnitzoff,  indicatiiig  hei-  by  a  movement  of  the 
head. 

Katya  made  a  slight  curtsey,  ])laced  herself  be- 
side her  sister,  and  began  to  sort  owv  her  flowers. 
The  greyhound,  whose  name  was  Fifi,  appi-oached 
each  visitor  in  linii.  wagging  his  tail,  and  thrust 
his  cold  nose  inlo  llie  hand  ol"  each  of  them. 

11-2 


FATIIKKS    AM)   C  IIILl)ln^^• 
"  Didsl  llioii  pluck  all  those  thyscll*^  "'     asked 
JNIadaine  Odint/off. 

"  Ves,"  — replied  Katya. 
And  is  aimty  coming  to  tea?  " 

"    AT"  " 

Yes. 

When  Katya  spoke  she  smiled  vec\  |)iettily, 
bashfully, and  eaudidiy,  aiul  looked  upwaids  from 
helow  in  a  comical Iv-grim  manner.  Kver\  thiim 
about  her  was  still  extremely  youthful:  lier  voice, 
and  the  fine  down  all  over  her  face,  and  hei*  rosy 
hands,  with  whitish  circles  on  the  palms,  and  her 
rather  cram])ed  shoulders.  .  .  She  was  inces- 
santly })lushing  and  hastily  catchino-  hei-  bi'cath. 

Madame  Odint/oft'  turned  to  Ha/aioll'.— 
"  You  are  looking  at  those  pictures  out  oi'  ])olite- 
ness,  Evgeny  Vasilitch," — she  began.—  '  They  do 
not  interest  you.  \'on  had  better  move  up  nearer 
us,  and  we  will  get  into  an  argument  over  some- 
thing or  other." 

BazarofF  ajjproached.  — "  What  shall  we  argue 
about?  "  —  he  said. 

"  About  anything  you  like.     T  warn  yon  that 
I  am  a  frightfully  (piarrelsome  ))erson." 
1  on  f 

"  Yes,  I.    That  seems  to  surprise  you.    A\'hy  (  " 

"Because,  so  far  as  1  can  judge,  you  have  a 
calm  and  cold  nature,  and  for  dis])ut<'  enthusiasm 
is  necessary." 

"  How  is  it  that  you  have  succeeded  in  finding 
me  out  so  promptly  ?     In  the  first  ])la('e.  1  am  iin- 

i4;j 


FATTTKHS    AM)  C'lIILDHK.X 

patient  and  j^ei'sistent :  ask  Katya  if  1  am  not; 
and,  in  the  second  ]:)lacc,  I  am  very  easily  aroused 
to  enthusiasm." 

Baziiroff  looked  at  Anna  Sergyeevna.  — "  Per- 
haps you  ouo'ht  to  know  l)est.  So  you  would  like 
to  dispute,  — very  well.  I  have  heen  looking  over 
the  views  of  the  Saxon  Switzerland  in  your 
album,  and  you  have  remarked  to  me  tliat  that 
could  not  interest  me.  You  said  that  l)ecause  you 
do  not  suspect  me  of  having  artistic  sense,  —  and, 
is  a  mattei-  of  fact.  I  have  not:  ])ut  T  might  take 
an  interest  in  those  pictures  from  a  geological 
point  of  view  —  from  the  })oint  of  view  of  the  for- 
mation of  mountains,  for  example." 

"  p]fxcuse  me;  as  a  geologist  you  would  be  more 
likely  to  have  recourse  to  a  book,  to  a  special  work, 
and  not  to  a  drawing." 

"  The  drawing  ])resents  to  me  at  a  glance 
tliat  which  in  the  book  is  set  forth  in  ten  whole 
pages." 

Anna  Sergyeevna  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  And  have  \'ou  reallv  not  a  tinv  drop  of  artis- 
tic  sense?  "  —  slie  said,  setting  her  elbows  on  the 
table,  and  by  that  very  movement  bringing  her 
face  closer  to  Bazaroff .  —  "  IIow  do  you  get  along 
without  it?  " 

"  AMiat  is  the  use  of  it,  permit  me  to  inquire?  " 

"  Why.  if  for  nothing  else,  that  one  may  learn 
Iiow  to  understand  and  study  ])eo])le." 

Bazjiroff  laughed.  —  "  In  the  first  place,  the  ex- 

144 


FATITEKS   AND  C'llILDUKN 

perience  of  life  exists  for  tliat  pur])()sc-:  and,  in 
the  second  place,  T  must  inform  you  that  it  is  nnl 
worth  while  to  study  separate  individuals.  All 
people  resemble  one  another,  in  soul  as  in  Ixxly: 
each  one  of  us  has  brain,  s])leen,  heart,  lun^s,  ol" 
identical  structure;  and  the  so-called  moral  (juali- 
ties  are  exactly  alike  in  all:  the  slight  difference 
of  aspect  signifies  nothing.  One  specimen  of  liu- 
manity  is  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  judge  of  all  the 
rest.  Men  are  like  tlie  trees  in  a  forest  — not  a 
single  botanist  will  busy  himself  with  eacli  sepa- 
rate birch." 

Katya,  who  was  matching  flower  to  flower  in 
a  leisurely  way,  raised  her  eyes  to  Bazaroff  in  snr- 
prise, — and  encountering  his  swift  and  careless 
glance,  flushed  crimson  to  her  very  ears.  ^Vnna 
Sergyeevna  shook  her  head. 

"  The  trees  in  the  forest,"  — she  repeated.— 
"  So,  according  to  you,  there  is  no  difference  be- 
tween a  stupid  and  a  clever  man,  between  a  good 
one  and  a  bad  one." 

"  Yes,  there  is:  as  there  is  between  a  well  man 
and  a  sick  one.  The  lungs  of  the  consnnii)li\(' 
are  not  in  the  same  conditions  as  youi-s  and  nunc 
are,  although  they  are  constructed  in  tlif  same 
manner.  We  know,  approximately,  wlience  come 
bodily  ailments;  but  moral  ailments  proceed  from 
a  bad  education,  from  all  sorts  of  nonsense  with 
which  peo])le's  heads  are  stuffed  from  tluir  in- 
fancy, from  the  abnormal  condition  of  society      m 


FxVTlIKKS  AM)  ClllLDKKX 

a  word,  reform  society,  and  there  will  be  no  dis- 
ease.' 

Baziiroff  said  ail  this  with  an  aspect  which 
seemed  to  indicate  that,  at  the  same  time,  he  was 
savin""  to  himself:  '  Wliether  vou  believe  me  or 
not,  it  's  all  one  to  me!  "  lie  slowly  drew  his  long- 
fingers  through  his  side-whiskers  and  his  eyes 
wandered  about  the  corners  of  the  room. 

"  And  you  assume,"  —  said  Anna  Sergyeevna, 
— "  tliat  when  society  shall  have  been  reformed 
there  will  be  no  more  stupid,  no  more  wicked, 
men  f 

"  At  all  events,  with  a  regular  arrangement 
of  society,  it  will  not  matter  whether  a  man  is 
stupid  or  clever,  wicked  or  good." 

"Yes,  I  understand;  all  will  have  identically 
tlie  same  s])leen." 

"  Precisely  tliat,  madam." 

^ladame  Odint/off  turned  to  Arkady.  —  "  ^Vnd 
wliat  is  vour  oi^inion,  iVrkadv  Xikolae\itch!'  " 

"  I  agree  with  Kvgeny,  '  —  he  replied. 

Katya  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  him. 

"  You  amaze  me,  gentlemen,"  —  said  Madame 
Odfntzoff;  —  "but  we  will  discuss  this  later  on. 
iVnd  now  I  hear  my  aunt  coming  to  drink  tea;  we 
must  spare  her  ears." 

Anna  Sergveevna's  aunt.  Princess  X  .  .  .  ,  a 
thin,  small  woman,  with  a  face  about  the  size  of 
one's  fist,  and  staring,  malicious  eyes  beneath  her 
grey  wig,  entered. and  hardly  sahiti?ig  the  visitors, 

140 


1  ATIIKKS  AM)  C  IIII.l)IM<:N 
(ll•()ppc(^  down  ill  a  c'aj)acit)us  velvet  ariii-cliair.  in 
which  no  one  except  herself  had  a  ri^ht  to  sit. 
Kiitya  placed  a  stool  under  her  feet:  the  did 
woman  did  not  thank  her,  did  not  even  look  at 
Iiei-,  oidy  moved  her  hands  ahont  undei*  the  ncIIow 
shawl,  which  covered  almost  tlie  whole  of  liei- 
pnnv  l)o(l\'.  The  Princess  loved  vellow  :  she  also 
had  hri<»ht  yellow  rihhons  on  her  ca}). 

"How  have  you  slept,  aunty?  "  —  asked  Ma- 
dame Odintzoff',  lowering-  her  voice. 

"  There  's  that  dog  here  again,"  —  growled  the 
old  woman  in  response;  and  noticing  that  Fifi 
took  a  couple  of  undecided  .steps  in  her  direction, 
she  cried  out:  "  Scat!  scat!  " 

Katya  called  Fifi,  and  o])ened  the  door  for  him. 

Fifi  rushed  joyously  forth,  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  he  taken  for  a  walk,  hut  on  finding  hini- 
.self  alone  outside  the  door,  l)egan  to  sci-atch  and 
whine.  The  Princess  frowned.  Kiitya  started  to 
go  out.   .   .   . 

"Tea  is  ready,  I  think  :*  "  —  said  Madame 
Odintzoff.  — "  Come,  gentlemen;  aunty,  please 
come  and  drink  tea." 

The  Princess  ro.se  in  silence  from  hei-  chair  and 
left  the  di-awing-room  first.  All  followed  lu  r  to 
the  dining-room.  A  page-hoy  in  liveiy  noisily 
moved  away  from  the  tahle  a  chair  garnished  w  itli 
])illows,  also  sacred  to  hei-  use,  in  which  the  Piiii- 
cess  seated  herself;  Katya,  when  she  poured  tlu 
tea,  served  her  first  in  a  cuj)  with  a  painted  coat 

U7 


IWrill^lJS    AM)  (  IIILDUKX 

of  arms.  The  old  woman  put  honey  in  her  cup 
(she  thoutJ'ht  it  sinful  to  drink  tea  with  sugar,' 
and  e\j)ensive,  altliou«>h  slie  lierself  did  not  spend 
a  fai-tliin«>-  on  this),  and  suddeidy  iiujuired,  in  ;i 
lioarse  voice:  "  xVnd  ^\llat  does  Prance  Ivan 
writer  " 

Xo  one  answered  her.  Baziiroff  and  Arkady 
speedily  divined  that  no  one  paid  any  attention  to 
her,  although  they  treated  lier  respectfully.  "  For 
tlie  sake  of  maintaining  tlieir  dignity,  hecause  she 
is  a  princely  sprig,"  tliouglit  15azaroff.  .  .  After 
tea  xVnna  Sergveevna  suggested  that  tliey  should 
go  for  a  stroll,  but  a  fine  rain  began  to  fall,  and 
the  whole  company,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Princess,  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  The 
neiiihbour  who  was  fond  of  cards,  bv  name  Por- 
firy  Platdnitch,  arrived,  — a  fat,  grey-haired  man, 
with  short  legs,  w  hich  looked  just  as  though  they 
liad  been  turned  in  a  lathe,  a  very  ])olite  and 
entertaining  person.  Anna  Sergyeevna,  wl.o  had 
been  chatting  principally  with  Baz.-iroff.  askrd 
"-liim  whethei"  he  would  not  like  to  liave  an  old-fash- 
ioned battle  at  ])reference  M'ith  him.  Bazaroff 
consented,  saying  that  he  must  ])re])are  himself 
in  advance  for  the  duties  of  a  country  doctor 
which  awaited  him. 

"  Take  care,"  — remarked  Anna  Sergveevnfv, — 

1  Probably,  on  tlie  same  ground  that  the  devout  do  not  use  sugar 
during  tlic  Churcli  fasts,  viz.,  because  it  is  clarified  with  blood — an 
animal  substitnce.  -  Tiiaxsi.ator. 

148 


FATIIKKS   AM)   C  nilJ)HKX 

"  Porfirv  Platoiiitcli  and  J  sliall  l)cal  \<)ii.  And 
do  thou,  Katya,"  —  she  added,  —  "  phiy  sonietliinii/" 
for  Arkady  Xikohievitcli;  he  is  fond  oi'  mnsic, 
and  we  will  listen  also." 

Katya  went  nnwillin<4ly  to  tlie  |)iano;  and  Ar- 
kady, althon<>ii  lie  really  was  fond  ol'  ninsie,  un- 
willingly followed  her:  it  seemed  to  liiin  that  Ma- 
dame Odintzoff  was  sending  him  away,  and  in 
his  heart,  as  in  the  heart  of  every  young  man  of 
his  age,  there  was  seething  an  agitated  and  op- 
pressive feeling,  resemhling  a  presentiment  of 
love.  Kiitya  raised  the  lid  of  the  i)iano,  and. 
without  looking  at  Arkady,  said  in  an  undertone: 

"  What  shall  I  ])lay  for  you?  " 

"  Whatever  vou  like,"  — replied  Ai-kad\-  indil- 

ferently. 

"What  sort  of  musie  do  you  prefer^'  -re- 
peated Kiitya,  without  ehanging  her  position. 

"  Classical,"  — replied    Arkady,    in    the    same 

tone. 

"  Do  vou  like  ^lozart?  " 

"  Ves>' 

Katva  "ot  !»lo/art'^'  Sonata-Fantasia  in  C 
minor.  She  ])layed  very  well,  although  lather  se- 
verely and  dryly.  She  sat  motionless  and  stit!', 
never  taking  her  eyes  from  her  notes,  and  with 
lips  tightly  compressed,  and  only  toward  the  end 
of  the  sonata  did  her  face  grow  tlnshed.  and  a  lit- 
tle strand  of  uncurled  hair  Call  on  li<  r  rorehcad. 

Arkady    was    partieiilariy    struck    hy    tli.     last 

141^ 


FATIIKUS   AM)  CIIll.DUEN 

part  of  tlie  sonata — by  that  part  in  which,  tlirough 
the  enchanting  mirth  of  the  care-free  melody, 
hursts  of  such  mournful,  almost  tragic  woe,  sud' 
denly  penetrate.  .  .  But  the  thoughts  evoked  in 
liini  1)V  the  strains  of  ^Mozart  did  not  refer  to 
Katya.  As  he  ga/ed  at  liei-  he  merely  thought: 
"  lleallv,  this  vomm"  ladv  does  not  i^lax-  hadlv,  and 
she  herself  is  not  bad-looking." 

AN'hen  she  had  finished  the  sonata  Katya  in- 
quired, without  removing  her  hands  from  the 
keys,  "  Is  that  enough?  "  Arkady  declared  that  he 
did  not  dare  to  inconvenience  her  furthei-.  and  l)e- 
gan  to  talk  to  her  about  ^lozart;  he  asked  her 
whether  she  had  chosen  that  sonata  herself,  or  liad 
some  one  recommended  it  to  her?  15ut  Katya  an- 
swered him  in  monosyllables:  she  had  hidden  her- 
self, retreated  into  herself.  A\^hen  that  happened 
with  her  she  did  not  speedily  come  to  the  surface ; 
at  such  times  her  very  face  assumed  an  obstinate, 
almost  stupid  expression.  She  was  not  precisely 
sh}',  but  distrustful  and  i-atlier  tei-rified  by  hei- 
sister,  who  had  reared  her,  x\hic]i  the  latter,  of 
course,  did  not  even  sus[)ect.  Arkady  ended  l)v 
calling  up  Fifi,  who  had  returned,  and,  by  way  of 
keeping  himself  in  countenance,  began  to  stroke 
his  head,  smiling  benevolently.  Katya  betook 
herself  again  to  her  flowers. 

And,  in  the  meantime,  Ba/arofV  kept  losing 
and  losing.  Anna  Sergyeevna  played  a  masterly 
hand    at    cards;    Porfiry    Philoiiitch    also    could 

1.50 


FATHKKS   AM)   CIIILDKKX 

stand  up  for  hiinsclf.  Hazjirof!'  was  tin-  losi-r, 
and  although  not  to  any  considciahle  extent,  yet 
it  was  not  altogether  pleasant  for  liim.  iXftci- 
su})per  Anna  Sergyeevna  turned  the  eonversation 
u])on  botany  again. 

"  Let  us  go  for  a  walk  to-morrow   inorning/" 
she  said  to  him:  — '*  I  wisli  to  leaj-n  I'rom  you  tin- 
Latin  names  of  the  field-})lants  and  their  pi-()))ei- 
les. 

"  AN^hat  do  you  want  with  the  Latin  names:'  ' 
—  asked  Bazarotf*. 

"  One  nuist  have  order  in  everything,'  —she  re- 
plied. 

"  What  a  marvellous  woman  i\nna  Sergye- 
evna is."  —  exelaimed  iVrkady,  when  lie  was 
alone  with  his  friend  in  the  ehamber  assigned  Id 
them. 

"  Ves,"  — replied  Bazaroft',  — "  a  woman  w  ith  a 
brain.     Well,  and  she  has  seen  sights." 

"  In  what  sense  dost  thou  say  that,  Ivgvny 
Vasilitch?  " 

"  In  a  good  sense,  a  good  sense,  my  dear  Ai- 
kiidy  Nikolaeviteh!  I  am  eonvineed  that  shr 
manages  her  estate  excelleiitly.  Hut  the  niar\  tl 
is  not  she,  but  her  sister." 

"What^     That  brown-faeed   little   tiling^" 

"  Yes,  that  brown-faeed  little  thing.  Shr  s 
fre.sh,  and  unsullied,  and  timid,  and  lacitinii.  ;iii(l 
anything  you  like.  That  s  a  ])erson  one  cmii  gel 
interested  in.    ^'ou  can  make  nf  Ik  r  anything  y«»ii 

151 


1  ATIIKKS  AND  CIIILDKKX 

take  it  into  your  lieatl  to  make:  but  tlie  other— is 
a  shrewd  ereature." 

Arkady  made  no  reply  to  Ba/aroff,  and  ])otli 
of  them  hiy  down  to  sleep  with  speeial  thouglits 
in  their  heads. 

And  Anna  Sergveevna  on  that  same  evening- 
was  thinking  of  lier  guests.  She  liked  Ba/tiroff* 
— his  absence  of  co(juetry  and  the  very  harshness 
of  his  judgments.  She  discerned  in  him  some- 
thing new  which  she  had  not  hitherto  chanced  to 
encounter,  and  she  was  curious. 

Anna  Sergyeevna  was  rather  a  strange  being. 
Devoid  of  prejudices,  devoid  even  of  any  strong 
beliefs,  she  yielded  to  no  one  and  followed  no  one. 
She  saw  much  clearly,  mueli  interested  her,  and 
ncjthing  completely  satisfied  her;  and  complete 
satisfaction  was  hardly  what  she  wanted.  Her 
mind  was  inquisitive  and  indifferent  at  one  and 
the  same  time :  her  doubts  were  never  appeased  to 
forgetfulness  and  never  increased  to  alarm.  Had 
she  not  been  wealthy  and  independent,  she  miglit 
possibly  have  flung  herself  into  tlie  fray  and  liave 
known  })assion.  .  .  l^ut  lite  was  easy  for  lier,  al- 
though she  was  sometimes  bored:  she  continued 
to  ])ass  (lav  after  dav  in  a  leisurelv  man- 
ner,  only  growing  agitated  now  and  then.  Rain- 
bow hues  sometimes  flashed  uj)  before  her  eyes 
also,  but  she  breathed  more  freely  when  they  had 
faded  awav,  and  slie  did  not  regret  them.  ^\vv 
imagination  carried  her  excii  Ix  voih]  the  bounds 

1.V2 


FATI1K1{S    AM)   C  IIILDKI'.X 

of  that  which,  according  to  tlie  orcHnarv  hiws  of 
iiiorahty,  is  considered  ])crniissihle;  hut  even  then 
lier  hlood  flowed  as  (juietly  as  ever  in  hei-  entrane- 
in»»lv-statelv  and  ti'antiuil  hodv'.  'I'lieri'  wcic 
times  wlien,  on  eniergiTig  from  a  jxi  ruined  hatli. 
all  warm  and  enervated,  she  took  to  meditating 
u])()n  the  insignitieanee  of  life,  its  woe,  toil  .md 
evil.  ,  .  Pier  soul  woukl  he  filled  with  sudden  au- 
dacity, would  seethe  with  nohle  asj)ii'ation;  hut 
let  a  draught  hlou  through  the  half-open 
window  and  Anna  Sergveevna  would  shrink  to- 
gethei-,  and  complain  and  almost  wax  angi'y,  and 
she  wanted  only  one  thing  at  such  moments: 
that  that  hateful  wind  should  not  hlow  uj)on 
her. 

Ijike  all  women  who  have  not  managed  to  tail 
in  love,  she  wanted  something— precisely  what  slie 
did  not  know.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  wanted 
nothing,  although  it  seemed  to  lier  that  she  wanted 
evervthing.  She  had  harelv  tolerated  the  late 
Odintzoff  (she  had  married  liim  from  ealetdation. 
although,  in  all  ])r()hahility,  she  would  not  ha\c- 
consented  to  be  his  wife  if  she  had  not  regarded 
him  as  a  kind  man) ,  and  had  aecjuired  a  secret  dis- 
gust for  all  men,  whom  slie  ])ictured  to  herself  as 
dirty,  lieavy  and  indolent.  im))otently  tiresome 
heings.  Once,  somewhere  ahroad,  she-  had  met  a 
young  man,  a  handsome  Swede,  with  a  knightly 
expression  of  countenance,  with  honest  hlue  eyes 
beneath  an  o])en  ])row:  he  had  made  a  strong  im 

1  y.i 


FAIIIKHS   AND  C'lIILDKKX 

pjrssion  ii])<)n  licr.  but  this  liad  not  prcNcutod  Iter 
returning"  to  Russia. 

"  .V  strange  man,  that  doetor!  "  slie  thought, 
as  slie  la\'  down  in  her  niagnifieent  l)ed  on  h.er  hiee 
pillows  undei"  a  light  silken  ec^vei'let.  .  .  .  Anna 
Ser^>'/'jevna  had  inherited  I'roiu  her  i'athei-  a  i)oi-- 
tioi'  I  r  his  inelination  for  luxury.  She  had  been 
\ery  fond  of  her  sinl'ul  hut  kind  father,  and  he 
had  idolised  her.  had  iested  with  her  in  friendh' 
wise  as  witli  an  equal,  and  had  trusted  her  utterly 
—  had  taken  counsel  with  her.  She  hardly  remem- 
bered her  mother. 

"That  doctor  is  a  strange  fellow!''  she  re- 
peated to  herself.  She  stretched  herself,  smiled, 
threw  her  arms  behind  her  head,  then  ran  her  eyes 
over  the  pages  of  a  cou])le  of  dull  French  ro- 
mances—  and  fell  asleep,  all  ])ure  and  cold,  in  her 
clean  and  perfumed  linen. 

On  the  following  morning  ^Vnna  Sergyeevna. 
immediately  after  breakfast,  went  off  to  botanise 
M-ith  l^a/Jiroff,  and  returned  home  just  before  din- 
ner; Arkady  did  not  go  off'  anywhere,  and  spent 
about  an  hour  with  Katya.  He  did  not  find  him- 
self bored  in  her  society;  she  offered  of  her  own 
accord  to  repeat  for  him  the  sonata  she  had  ])laye(l 
on  the  day  before:  but  when,  at  last,  Madame 
Odint/off  returned,  when  he  beheld  lier— his 
J)eart  instantly  contracted  within  him.  .  .  .  She 
was  walking  through  the  garden  with  a  some- 
what fatigued  step;  her  cheeks  were  of  a  vivid 

154 


FATliKKS    AM)   CII  il. DUKX 

scarlet,  and  her  eyes  N\ere  sliiiiiii^  iiumc  l»rillianll\ 
than  usual  l)eiieatli  liei-  i-ouud  straw  li;il.  Slic  was 
twirling-  in  liei*  tin«4'ers  the  sleiidei-  stem  of  ;i  wild 
fiower,  her  light  mantilla  had  slipped  down  lo  liei- 
elbows,  and  the  broad  grey  ribbons  of  Ik  r  liat 
elung  closely  to  her  bosom.  Ha/arott'  was  walk- 
ing behind  her  in  a  self-confident,  careless  way. 
as  always,  but  the  expression  of  his  face,  although 
it  was  cheerful  and  even  bland,  did  not  please 
Arkady.  ^Muttering  through  his  teeth,  "(rood 
morning!  "  —  Bazaroff  went  off'  to  his  room,  and 
]Madame  Odintzoff'  shook  hands  with  Ark.idy  in 
a  preoccupied  way,  and  also  walked  on  past  liim. 
Good  morning/'  —  thought  i\i-kady.  .  .  . 
"  But  have  we  not  seen  each  other  already  to 
day?" 


155 


XVII 

It  is  a  familiar  fact  that  time  sometimes  flies  like 
a  bird,  sometimes  crawls  like  a  worm;  but  a  man 
is  particularly  happy  when  he  does  not  notice 
wliether  it  is  passing  swiftly  or  slowly.  In  pre- 
cisely this  manner  did  Arkady  and  Bazaroff 
spend  a  fortnight  at  ^Madame  Odintzoff's.  This 
result  was  contributed  to  by  tlie  order  which  she 
had  introduced  into  her  houseliold  and  her  life. 
She  adhered  strictly  to  it,  and  made  others  con- 
form to  it  also.  Throuohout  the  whole  day  every- 
thing  w^as  done  at  an  appointed  time.  In  the 
morning,  exactly  at  eiglit  o'clock,  the  whole  com- 
pany assembled  for  tea;  from  tea  until  bi-eakfast 
each  one  did  whatever  lie  wished,  and  the  liostess 
busied  herself  witli  liei-  steward  (tlie  estate  was 
managed  on  the  (luit-rent  system),  with  her  but- 
lers, and  with  tlie  head-housekeeper.  Before  din- 
ner the  com])aiiy  again  assembled  for  conversa- 
tion or  reading:  the  exeiiiiig  was  devoted  to 
strolls,  cards,  music;  at  half-past  ten  Anna  Ser- 
^-s^eevna  retired  to  her  own  room,  issued  orders 
for  the  following  day,  r.nd  went  to  bed.  BazarofF 
did  not  like  this  measured,  somewhat  solemn  reg- 
•vlaritv  of  daily  life:-"  You  roll  along  as  though 


FA'lIIKHS    AM)   (  IIILDKIv^ 

on  rails,'  he  asserted;  tlie  liveried  laekeys,  tlit, 
stately  butlers,  offended  his  demoeratie  leelingi 
lie  thou(>ht  that  if  it  had  come  to  tliat  then  tluv 
ought  to  dine  in  Knglish  fasliioii.  in  (h-css-snits 
and  white  ties.  One  day  he  stated  his  views  on 
iliis  point  to  Anna  Sergyeex  na.  She  hoi-e  herself 
in  such  a  manner  that  any  man  could,  without  eii- 
cumlocution,  exj)ress  his  opinions  in  her  presence. 
She  heard  him  out,  and  said:  "  From  your  point 
of  view,  you  are  right  — and,  perhaps,  in  that  case, 
—  T  am  a  gentlewoman;  hut  one  cannot  live  with- 
out ordei"  in  the  country,  —  one  woidd  he  bored  to 
death,"  —  and  went  on  in  her  own  way.  Hazjirofl' 
grum])led,  but  he  and  Arkady  found  life  easy 
at  ]Madame  Odintzoff 's,  because  everything  in  her 
house  did  "  run  as  though  on  rails."  Nevertlie- 
less,  both  young  men  underwent  a  change  from 
the  very  first  days  of  their  stay  at  Nikolskoe.  A 
trepidation  hitherto  non-existent  made  its  api)ear- 
ance  in  Bazaroff,  whom  Anna  Sergyeevna  ob- 
viously favoured:  he  was  easily  irritated,  talked 
umvillingly,  wore  an  angry  aspect,  and  could  no! 
sit  still  in  one  place,  just  as  though  sonuthing 
made  him  uneasy;  and  Arkadv,  who  had  finalK 
decided  in  his  own  mind  tliat  he  was  in  lo\e  w  ith 
Madame  Odint/off,  began  to  surrender  himself 
to  gentle  melancholy.  However,  this  melancholx' 
did  not  prevent  his  becoming  intimate  with 
Katya;  it  even  aided  him  to  enter  into  friindlw 
affectionate  relations  with  liei'.     "  SJir  does  ?iot 

1.37 


FATIIKHS   AM)  C'TIILDKKy 

apprcciiitc  me!  So  he  it!  .  .  .  Hut  here  is  a  kind 
being  who  will  not  s])iirn  nie,"  he  thought,  and 
his  heart  again  tasted  tlie  sweetness  of  magnani- 
mous sentiments.  Katya  dimly  eomprehcnded 
that  he  was  seeking  some  soi't  of  eonsolation  in  lier 
society,  and  did  not  refuse  to  him  or  to  herself 
the  innocent  gratitieatioii  of  a  half-l)ashful.  half- 
confiding  friendshi]).  Tliey  did  not  talk  to  eacli 
other  in  the  j^resence  of  Anna  Sergyeevna:  Katya 
always  contracted  ])eneath  her  sister's  keen 
glance,  and  Arkady,  as  was  befitting  a  man  in 
love,  in  tlie  presence  of  his  adored  object  could 
not  devote  any  attention  to  anything  else;  but  he 
was  lia})py  alone  witli  K.itya.  He  felt  that  he  was 
not  capa])]e  of  interesting  Machime  Odintzoff ;  he 
iK'came  timid  and  lost  his  presence  of  mind  when 
he  was  left  alone  with  hei-:  and  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say  to  him :  he  was  too  yoiuig  for  her.  On 
the  other  hand,  witli  Katya  Arkady  ^^•as  at  home, 
as  it  were;  he  treated  her  condescendingly,  did  not 
interfere  with  lier  expressing  the  impressions 
awakened  in  her  by  music,  tlie  i)erusal  of  novels, 
of  poetry,  and  by  other  ti"iHes,  without  himself 
perceiving  oi"  acknowledging  that  these  trifles  in- 
terested him.  i\rktidy  was  at  ease  with  Katya, 
iSIadame  Odintzoff  with  Ha/aroff,  and  conse- 
quently this  was  the  usual  order  of  things:  the 
two  couples  after  remaining  a  short  time  together 
Avent  their  separate  ways,  especially  during  ram- 
])les.     Katya  adored  nature,  and  .Arkady  loved  it, 

158 


FATHERS  AM)  CIIILDKKX 

altlioii<^h  lie  (lid  not  dare  lo  coiil'css  it:  .Madame 
Odintzoff  was  (juitc  iiidili'erenl  to  it,  as  was  also 
Hazaroft'.  The  almost  eonstant  se})arati()ii  ol'  mii 
friends  did  not  remain  ^^itllout  results:  the-  rela- 
tions between  tliem  he^an  to  undergo  a  elian^e. 
IJa/aroff  eeased  to  talk  to  Arkady  ahont  Madame 
Odint/off,  eeased  even  to  revile  liei-  "  aiistoi'ratie 
habits";  it  is  true  that  he  lauded  Kj'itya  as  before. 
and  only  advised  that  her  sentimental  tenden- 
cies shoukl  be  cheeked,  but  liis  praises  were  hasty, 
his  advice  curt,  and.  in  general,  he  talked  much 
less  to  Arkadv  than  of  vore:  .  .  .  he  seemed  to 
shun  him,  as  though  he  were  ashamed  in  his  pres- 
ence. .  .   . 

^Vrkadv  observed  all  this,  but  kept  his  obserxa- 
tions  to  himself. 

The  real  cause  of  all  this  '"  novelty  "'  was  the 
sentiment  with  which  ^ladame  Odintzoff  had  in- 
spired BazarofF— a  sentiment  which  tortured  and 
enraged  him,  and  which  he  would  have  spurned 
on  the  instant,  with  scornful  laughter  and  cynical 
sneers,  had  any  one  hinted,  even  distantly,  at  tlu 
Dossibility  of  that  which  had  taken  place  in  him. 
liazaroff.  Bazaroff  was  vciy  Coiid  of  women 
and  of  feminine  beauty,  but  lo\  e  in  the  ideal,  or. 
as  he  ex])ressed  it,  the  romantic  sense,  he  called 
balderdash,  unijardonable  folly:  regarded  chival- 
rous sentiments  as  a  sort  of  deformity  or  maladx  . 
and  had  more  than  once  gixcii  uticranr.  lo  his 
amazement  at  theii-  not  ha\  ing  \n\\  Toggenhin-g. 

i.y.) 


FATHERS  AM)  CIllLDUEX 

aloiit'-  \\  itii  a]]  liis  iiiiiincsingers  and  troiil)a(l()iirs, 
in  ?  mad-house!     "  If  a  woman  pleases  j'oii,"  lie 
had  been  wont  to  sav,  "  trv  to  "et  to  the  bottom 
of     the     business;     l)iil     it'    that     is     impossible, 
well,  vou  don't   want  her:  turn  awav,  she's  not 
the  onl;r   on-y  i^i  the  Avorld/'     ]Madame  Odintzoff* 
pleased  bipi:  the  rumours  in  circulation  ab()ut  her, 
the  freedoni  and  independence  of  her  thoughts, 
her  indubitable  liking  for  him,  —  everything,  ap- 
parently, spoke   in  his  favour;  but  he  speedily 
comprehended  that  with  her  one  could  not  "  get 
to   the   bottom   of   the   business,"   and   that,   to 
his   own   amazement,   h6   had    not   the   strength 
to  turn  awav   from   her.      His   blood   beoan   to 
boil    as    soon    as    he    called    lier    to    mind;    he 
could  easily  have  controlled  his  blood,  but  some- 
thing else  had  taken  u])  its  abode  in  him,  which 
he  in  nowise  admitted,  over  which  he  was  forever 
sneering,  which  revolted  his  pride.    In  his  conver- 
sations with  Anna  Sergyeevna  he  more  than  ever 
expressed  his  indifferent  scorn  for  everything  ro- 
mantic: and  when  he  was  left  alone  he  recognised 
with   wrath   the   romantic   in   himself.      Then   he 
went  off  to  the  forest  and  i-oamed  about  it  in  hu"-e 
strides,  breaking  the  boughs  which  came  in   his 
w^ay,  and  cursing  in  an  undei-tone  both  her  and 
himself;  or  he  ensconced  himself  in  the  hay -loft, 
in  a  shed,  and,  obstinately  shutting  his  eyes,  he 
forced   himself  to  slee)),   whieh,   as   a    matter  of 
'•oui'se,  he  did  not  always  succeed  in  dointi-.     i\ll 

iGO 


FA'rin:us  and  c  iiildkkx 

at  once  it  would  seem  to  liiiii  as  tliou^li  those, 
eliastc  anus  were  eneireliii<»-  his  neek,  tliose  proud 
lij)s  N\  (ic  res])oudiii«j"  to  his  kisses,  those  iiitelh«^eut 
eves  were   riveted   teudel^lv,  —  \es.   Itiidci'lN',     on 

ft  •  •  • 

his  eves,  and  liis  liead  would  he^in  to  reel,  and  he 
Mould  forget  liiniselC  i'or  a  nionienl  until  indit^iia- 
tion  again  ihu-ed  up  witliin  liini.  I  le  eaught  hiiii- 
seli'  in  all  sorts  of  "shaniet'ul"  thouglits,  as  tiiough 
a  demon  Avere  tormenting  liim.  It  sometimes 
seemed  to  him  that  a  eliauge  was  taking  place  in 
^Madame  Odint/off,  tliat  in  tlie  exj)ressi()n  of  her 
faee  something  ])eeuliar  had  made  its  ai)])earanee, 
hut  that  possihly.  .  .  .  l^ut  at  this  point  he  gen- 
erally stamped  his  foot,  or  gnaslied  liis  teeth,  and 
menaced  himself  with  his  clenched  fist. 

Xevertheless,  BazarofF  was  not  mistaken.  He 
had  struck  ]Madame  ()dintzoi!'\s  imagination:  he 
interested  her,  and  slie  thought  a  great  deal  ahoiit 
liim.  She  was  not  hored  in  liis  absence,  slie  did  not 
wait  for  him,  hut  his  appearance  immediately 
im|)arted  animation  lo  her;  she  willingly  i-emained 
alone  witli  liim,  and  liked  to  talk  with  him,  v\v\\ 
when  he  angered  her,  or  offended  her  taste,  her 
eleaant  habits.  She  seemed  to  be  desirous  of  both 
testing  him  and  sounding  herself. 

One  day  as  he  was  strolling  in  the  garden  witli 
her  he  suddenly  said,  in  a  surly  voice,  that  lie 
intended  soon  to  go  away  to  the  village  to  his 
father.  .  .  She  tm-ned  ])ale,  as  though  sonuthing 
liad  stung  her  heart,  and  stung  it  in  such  wise  that 


1  A'lIlKir^   AM)   C'II1L1)1?KX 

she  was  surprised,  aiul  iiRnlitateil  lor  a  long  time 
what  this  niight  mean,  l^azaroflf  had  informed 
her  of  liis  departure,  not  witli  the  idea  of  putting 
hei-  to  tlie  test  to  see  M'hat  would  eome  of  it:  he 
never  "'  inventetl."  On  the  morning  of  that  dav 
lie  liad  had  an  interview  with  his  father's  man- 
ager, his  former  valet.  Timofeiteli.  This  Timo- 
feitch.  an  experienced  and  alert  old  man.  with 
faded  yellow  hair,  weather-heaten  red  face,  and 
tiny  tear-drops  in  his  hlinking  eyes,  had  unex- 
j)e"cte(lly  presented  himself  to  Bazaroff  in  his 
sliort  overcoat  of  thick,  greyish-hlue  cloth,  girt 
with  a  fragment  of  leather,  and  in  tarred  hoots. 

"Ah,  old  man,  how  art  thou  I"  —  exclaimed 
Bazaroff. 

''  Good  morning,  dear  little  father  Evgeny  Va- 
silitch." — l^egan  the  little  old  man,  and  smiled 
iovoiislv.  which  caused  his  n\  hole  face  suddenlv  to 
1)6  covered  with  wrinkles, 

'  Whv  art  thou  come?     Have  thev  sent  thee 
for  me? "" 

'■  Good  gracious,  dear  little  father,  nr>\v  can  vou 
think  that!  "  —  lisped  Timofeitch  (he  called  to 
mind  the  strict  orders  he  had  received  from  liis 
master  when  he  set  out).—  '  I  wan  going  to 
town  on  business  and  heard  about  your  grace,  so 
I  turned  aside  on  the  way,  that  is— to  have  a  look 
at  vour  "•race :  ....  but  how  could  an v  one  feel 
uneasy?  " 

"  Come,  don't  lie,"—  Baz.*»roff  internipted  hitu. 

102 


FATliKKS   AMJ   eJULDHKX 

—  ■■  D(jst  thou  mean  to  say  that  tliy  njad  to  town 
hes  here?  "  Tinioieitch  hesitated  and  made  no  re- 
ply.— "  Is  my  father  well:'  " 

■  Yes.    Glory  to  God,  sir." 
"  And  my  mother  f  " 

■  And  Anna  Vlasiex  na  also,  glory  to  Thee.  ( ) 
Lord." 

*'  I  suppose  they  are  expecting  me  I  " 

The  httle  old  man  hung  his  tiny  head  on  one 

side.  —  ■■  Akli,  Evgeny  Vasilievitch.  how  can  tliey 

help  expecting  you.  sir!    As  you  believe  in  GckI. 

my  heart  has  ached  as  I  lookeil  at  your  parents." 

■  ^^  ell.  verv'  good,  xerv  good:    Dont  describe 
it.    Tell  them  that  I  will  come  soon." 

■'  I  olxry.  sir." — replied  Timofeitch.  with  a  sigh. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  house  he  banged  his 
cap  down  on  his  head  with  both  liands.  climbed 
into  the  mean  racing  drozliky  which  he  had  left 
at  the  gate,  and  drove  off  at  a  trot,  only  not  in  the 
direction  of  the  town. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  dav  Madame 
Odintzoff  ^vas  sitting  in  her  r<x)m  with  Bazarotf. 
w  hile  Arkady  was  pacing  the  music-room  and  lis- 
tening to  Katvas  playing.  The  Princess  had  re- 
tired to  her  own  room  u[)-stairs:  in  general,  slie 
could  not  bear  \-isitors.  and  in  particular  these 
■"  sans  culottes."  as  she  called  them.  In  the  state 
apartments  she  did  nothing  but  pout:  on  the  «)tlier 
hand,  in  her  own  room,  in  the  presence  of  her 
maid,  she  sometimes  broke  out  into  such  abuse- 


FATllKliS  AM)  ClllLDUEX 

that  lier  ca})  flew  off  her  head  in  company  witli 
her  wig.    ^Madame  0(h'nt/,()fF  was  aware  of  this. 

"  Why  are  you  preparing  to  leave,"  — she  be- 
gan;—" and  how  about  your  promise?  " 

Bazaroff  started.  —  "  What  promise,  machim  f  " 

"  Have  you  forgotten?  You  were  to  give  me 
a  few  lessons  in  chemistry." 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  ma'am '.  ]My  father  ex- 
pects me;  I  can  delay  no  longer.  However,  you 
can  read:  Pelouze  et  Fremy,  '  Notions  Generates 
de  Chimie  '  ;  it  is  a  good  book  and  clearly  written. 
In  it  you  will  find  everything  that  is  necessary." 

"But  remember  you  assured  me  that  a  book 
cannot  take  the  place  ....  I  have  forgotten  how 
you  expressed  yourself,  but  you  know  what  I 
want  to  say,  ....  do  you  remember?" 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  ma'am?  "—repeated  Ba- 
zaroff. 

"  Whv  oo?"  — said  Madame  Odintzoff,  lower- 

ing  her  voice. 

He  glanced  at  her.  Slie  had  thrown  her  head 
against  the  back  of  the  arm-chair  and  had  crossed 
her  hands— lier  arms  were  bare  to  tlie  elbow  — on 
her  la]).  Slie  seemed  paler  by  the  liglit  of  tlie  soli- 
taiy  hull)),  sliaded  by  a  nct\N()i-k  of  cut  i)ai)er. 
Her  amjile  wliite  gown  almost  completely  covered 
her  with  its  soft  folds;  the  tips  of  her  feet,  which 
were  also  crossed,  were  barely  visible. 

"  And  why  stay?  "  —  replied  Bazjiroff. 

Madame  Odint/olf  lui-ned  her  head  slightly.— 

1(J4< 


FA'llir.HS   AM)  (  IIIIJ)Kl:\ 
"  Wliat  do  you  mean  by  asking  wliy?    Don't  yon 
find  things  cheerful  in  my  liouse;f     Or  do  you 
think  tliat  no  one  will  regret  vou  liere!'  " 

"  I  am  convineed  of  tliat." 

jNIadame  Odint/off  was  silciii    for  a  space. — 

Ynw  iivc  mistaken  in  thinking  so.  However,  1 
do  not  believe  you.  ^'ou  cannot  have  said  that 
seriously." 

BazarofF  continued  to  sit  there  motionless. — 
"  Kvgeny  Vasilievitch.  wliy  do  not  you  speak:*" 

"  Rut  what  can  I  say  to  you?  It  is  not  worth 
wliile  to  I'egret  j)eople  in  general,  and  me  in  i)ar- 
tienlar." 

"Why  so?" 

"  I  am  a  sedate,  uninteresting  man.  I  do  not 
know  how  to  talk." 

"  You  are  begging  for  a  compliment,  Kvgeny 
Vasilievitch." 

"  That  is  not  mv  habit.  Do  not  you  know  vour- 
self  that  the  elegant  side  of  life  is  inaccessil)le  to 
me,  the  side  which  you  value  so  highly?  " 

INIadame  Odintzoff  nibbled  the  eoi'ner  of  Ik  i' 
liandkerchief.-"  Think  wliat  you  like,  but  1 
shall  find  it  dull  when  yoi'  are  gone." 

"  Arkady  will  remain," —  remarked  lia/arolf. 

Madame  Odintzoff  shrugged  her  shoulders 
slightly.—"  I  shall  find  it  dull,"-she  repeate(b 

"Really?  Tn  any  case,  yon  will  not  be  bored 
long." 

"  Why  do  you  assume  that?  " 

1  ().7 


FAlIIKirs   AM)  C'II1LI)I{K\ 

'  Because  vou  yoursell'  have  told  nie  that  you 
are  bored  only  when  your  order  is  disturbed.  You 
l^nc  an-anged  your  hfe  in  such  a?i  iinpecca])ly- 
i-e<>ulai"  manner  that  tliere  can  l)e  no  room  in  it 
for  irksomeness  or  (hdness  .  .  .  or  for  any  pain- 
ful feelings." 

"And  you  think  tliat  T  am  impeccable?  .  .  . 
that  is  to  sav,  that  1  have  arranged  mv  life  in  sudi 
a  regulai"  manner?  " 

"  Certainly!  Here,  for  example:  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  clock  will  strike  ten.  and  I  know  before- 
hand tliat  you  will  di-ive  me  away." 

"  Xo.  I  sliall  not  drive  you  away.  Kvgeny  Va- 
sflievitch.  Yim  may  stay.  Open  tliat  window.  .  . 
I  feel  stiHed  for  some  reason." 

BazarofF  rose  and  pushed  the  window.  It  im- 
mediately flew  open  with  a  bang.  .  .  He  had  not 
expected  that  it  would  open  so  readily ;  moreover, 
his  hands  were  trembling.  The  dark,  soft  niglit 
peered  into  the  room  with  its  almost  black  sky, 
faintly  rustling  trees,  and  fresli  odour  of  the  open, 
pure  air. 

"  Pull  down  the  shade  and  sit  down,"  —  said 
Madame  OdintzofF:  —  "  I  want  to  have  a  chat  with 
you  before  your  departure.  Tell  me  something 
about  yourself;  you  never  talk  about  yourself." 

"  I  try  to  talk  to  you  about  useful  subjects, 
Anna  Sergyeevna." 

"  You  are  very  modest.  .  .  But  I  should  like  to 
know  something  about  }'Ou,  about  your  family, 

-     IGG 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDUKX 

about  your  father,  for  wlioni  >()u  arc  ahandon- 
ing  us." 

"  Why  does  she  say  sueli  words?  "  thought  Jia- 
zaroff. 

"  All  that  is  not  in  the  least  interesting,"  he 
articulated  aloud:  — "  esjjeeially  I'oi-  yon;  we  arc 
ordinary  people " 

"  And  1,  in  your  opinion,  am  an  aristoerat '.  "' 

BazarofF  raised  his  eyes  to  jMadanie  Odinl/oll'. 
— "  Yes,"  he  said,  with  exaggerated  sharpness. 

She  laughed.  — "  I  see  that  vou  know  nie  very 
little,  although  you  assert  that  all  people  are 
alike,  and  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  study 
them.     I  will  narrate  the  story  of  my  life  to  you 

some  day; hut   first   you   must   tell   me 

yours." 

"  I  know  you  very  little," — repeated  Bazaroff. 
—  "Perhaps  you  are  right;  perhaps,  in  reality, 
every  human  being  is — a  riddle.  Just  take  your- 
self, for  example:  you  shun  society,  it  is  a  burden 
to  j^ou,  —  and  you  have  invited  two  students  to  re- 
side with  you.  Why  do  you,  M'ith  your  mind,  ^vith 
your  beauty,  live  in  the  country?  " 

"  What?"^  What  is  that  you  said?  "-Madame 
OdintzofF  caught  him  uj)  with  animation  —  "  With 
my beauty?  " 

Bazaroff  frowned.  —  "  That  is  nothing,"— he 
muttered;  —  "  I  wanted  to  say  that  1  do  not  thor- 
oughly understand  why  you  have  settled  down  in 
the  country." 

167 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDREX 

"  You  do  not  understand  tliat.  .  .  .  But  you 
explain  it  to  yourself  in  some  way  or  other?  " 

"Yes; I    suppose    you    remain    eon- 

stantly  in  one  place  because  you  have  indulged 
yourself,  because  you  l()\'e  comfoi-t,  ease,  and  are 
very  indifferent  to  everything  else." 

^Madame  Odintzoff  laughed  again.  —  "  You  are 
positively  determined  not  to  believe  that  I  am 
capable  of  being  carried  away?  " 

BazaroiF  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  her.  —  "  By 
curiosity,  — ]^)erhaps,  but  not  otherwise." 

"  Really?  Well,  now  I  understand  why  you 
and  I  have  become  friends;  for  you  are  just  such 
a  person  as  myself." 

"  We  have  become  friends  .  .  .  ."  said  Baza- 
roff ,  dully. 

"Yes!  ....  but  I  had  forgotten  that  you 
want  to  go  away." 

Bazaroff  rose.  The  lamp  bm-ned  dimly  in  the 
centre  of  the  shadowy,  perfumed,  isolated  room; 
through  the  curtain,  which  iluttered  now  and 
then,  the  exhilarating  fresliness  of  the  night  was 
wafted  in,  its  mysterious  whis])ei-ing  was  audible. 
Madame  Odintzoff  did  not  move  a  single  mem- 
ber, but  a  secret  agitation  was  gradually  seizing 
hold  u])on  her.  ...  It  communicated  itself  to 
Bazaroff.  She  suddeidy  became  conscious  that 
he  was  alone  with  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman.  ... 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " — she  said  slowly 

168 


FATHERS  AND  CHTT.DHKX 

He  made  no  reply  and  dn)pi)c'(l  into  a  c  I  tir. 

"  So  yon  regard  me  as  a  calni,  eflVmiiiatc, 
spoiled  being,"  — she  went  on  in  tlic  same  tone, 
never  taking  her  eyes  from  tlic  window.  —  "  Hut 
as  for  me,  I  know  as  to  myself  that  1  am  un- 
happy." 

"  You  are  unhappy!  ^Vhy?  Is  it  possil)lc  tlial 
you  can  attach  any  significance  to  vile  gossip^  " 

]Madame  Odintzoff  knit  her  brows.  She  was 
vexed  that  he  had  understood  her  in  that  wa\'. 

"  That  gossip  does  not  even  disturb  me,  Kv- 
geny  Vasilievitch,  and  I  am  too  ])n)ud  to  pei-rnit 
it  to  worry  me.  I  am  unhap])y  because  ...  I 
have  no  wish,  no  desire  to  live.  You  look  al  fir* 
incredulouslv ;  von  are  thinking:  An  '  aristocrat,' 
all  covered  with  lace  and  seated  in  a  \  elvet  arm- 
chair, is  saying  that.  And  T  do  not  dissimulate: 
I  do  love  what  yon  call  comfort,  and.  at  the  same 
time,  I  have  very  little  desire  to  live.  Accept 
this  contradiction  as  you  like.  However,  all  this 
is  romanticism  in  your  eves." 

BazarofF  shook  his  head.  —  "  '\^)u  are  healthy, 
independent,  rich:  wliat  more  do  you  required 
What  do  you  want?  " 

"What  do  T  want? "  — re])eate(l  Madame 
Odintzoff,  and  sighed.  "  I  am  very  weary:  I 
am  old;  it  seems  to  me  that  T  have  been  living  for 
a  very  great  while,  ^'es.  I  am  old."  she  added. 
gently  drawing  the  ends  of  hei-  mantilla  o\er  her 
bare    arms.  — Her    eyes    encountered    Ha/aroff's 

169 


FATHERS  xVXD  CHILDREN 

eyes,  and  she  blushed  faintly.  — "  There  are  so 
many  memories  behind  me:  life  in  Petersburg, 
wealth,  then  poverty,  then  my  father's  death,  mar- 
riage, then  a  trip  abroad,  as  was  proper.  .  .  . 
jNIanv  memories,  but  it  is  not  worth  while  to  recall 
them;  and  before  me  — is  a  long,  long  road,  but 
I  have  no  goal.  .  .  And  I  do  not  want  to  go 
on. 

"  Are  you  so  disenchanted?  "  —  asked  Bazaroff. 

"  No,"  — rejoined  INIadame  Odintzoflf  bro- 
kenly,— "  but  I  am  dissatisfied.  I  think  that  if  I 
could  become  strongly  attached  to  anything  .  ." 

"  You  want  to  fall  in  love,"— BazarofF  inter- 
rupted her, — "  and  you  cannot  fall  in  love; 
therein  lies  your  misfortune." 

Madame  OdintzofF  inspected  the  sleeve  of  her 
wrap. 

"  Cannot  I  fall  in  love?  " — she  said. 

"  Hardly!  Only  I  erred  in  calling  that  a  mis- 
fortune. On  the  contrary,  he  is  rather  deserving 
of  com})assion  to  whom  that  fate  befalls." 

"  Befalls, — what?  " 

"  To  fall  in  love." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  By  hearsay," — re])lied  Bazaroff  angrily. 

"Thou  art  flirting,"  he  thought;  "thou  art 
bored  and  art  teasing  me  for  the  lack  of  some- 
thing to  do,  and  I  .  .  .  ."  In  fact,  his  heart  was 
fairly  breaking. 

*'  Besides,  you  ma}'  be  too  exacting,"  —he  said, 

170 


FATIIKUS   AM)   CIIILDUKX 

bending  his  whole  hody  i'orwiinl  iind  playing  with 
the  fringe  on  the  aiin-ehair. 

*'  Possibly.  Aeeonhng  to  niN-  view,  il  is  all  or 
nothing.  A  life  for  a  life.  Thou  hast  taken  mint . 
hand  over  thine,  and  then  we  ean  proceed  w  itlioiit 
regret  and  without  return.  Otherwise,  IkUlt  1<  t 
it  alone." 

"  What  then?  "-remarked  Bazaroff.-"  That 
condition  is  perfectly  just,  and  I  am  surprised 
that  up  to  this  time  you  ....  have  not  found 
what  you  want." 

"  But  do  vou  think  it  is  easy  to  surrendei-  one's 
self  entirely  to  anything  whatever?  " 

"  It  is  not  easy  if  one  takes  to  reflecting  and 
waiting  and  sets  a  value  on  one's  self— esteems 
one's  self,  that  is;  but  to  surrender  one's  self  ^^  ith- 
out  reflection  is  very  easy." 

"  But  how  can  one  help  valuing  one's  self  ^  If 
I  have  no  value,  who  wants  my  devotion  ?  " 

"  That  is  no  aiFair  of  mine;  it  is  the  aff'air  of 
some  one  else  to  examine  into  the  question  ol'  ni\ 
value.    Th<^  principal  thing  is  to  know  how  to  sur- 
render one's  self." 

Madame  Odintzoff  separated  herself  from  llu 
back  of  her  chair.  — "  You  si)eak,"  — said  she 
"  as  though  you  had  gone  thron.gh  all  that." 

"  It  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  Anna  Sergye- 
evna:  all  that,  as  you  know,  is  not  in  my  line." 

"  But  would  you  know  how  to  surrender  yoin- 
self?" 

171 


FATHERS   AND  CTTTT.DREN 

"  1  do  not  know  liow;  I  will  not  boast." 

^Madame  Odintzoif  said  nothing,  and  Bazaroif 
relai)sed  into  silence.  The  sounds  of  the  piano 
were  wafted  to  them  from  the  drawing- 
room. 

"What  makes  Katya  play  so  late?"— re- 
marked ^Madame  Odintzoff. 

Bazaroff  rose.  "Yes,  it  really  is  late;  it  is 
time  for  you  to  go  to  bed." 

"  Wait.  Whither  are  you  hastening.  .  .  I 
must  say  one  word  more  to  you." 

"What  word?" 

"  Wait,"— whispered  Madame  Odintzoff.— 
Her  eyes  rested  on  BazarofF;  she  seemed  to  be  at- 
tentively inspecting  him. 

He  paced  the  room,  then  suddenly  approached 
her,  said  hastily  "  Farewell,"  gripped  her  hand  so 
that  she  almost  screamed  aloud,  and  went  out. 
She  raised  her  fingers,  which  stuck  together,  to 
her  lips,  blew  upon  them,  and  rising  suddenly,  im- 
pulsively from  her  cliair,  walked  to  the  door  with 
rapid  steps,  as  though  desirous  of  recalling  Baza- 
roif. .  .  .  Her  maid  entered  the  room  with  a  carafe 
on  a  silver  salver.  INIadame  Odintzoff  stopped 
short,  ordered  her  to  leave  the  room,  seated 
herself  again,  and  again  fell  into  thought. 
Her  hair  uncoiled  and  fell  on  her  shoulder  like  a 
dark-hued  serpent.  The  lamp  burned  for  a  long 
time  still  in  Anna  Sergyeevna's  chamber,  and  for 
a  long  tin^e  she  remained  motionless,  only  now 

172 


FATHERS   AM)  CIIILDKKN 

ami  then  ])assin«»"  lier  fingers  over  her  arms,  wliieli 
the  night  air  stnng  rathei-  sliarply. 

But  Ba/aroif  two  hours  hiter  retuiiied  lo  liis 
room  with  hoots  dani])  fron:  the  dew,  (hslievelled 
and  surly.  He  found  Arkady  at  the  writing- 
tahle  with  a  hook  in  his  hands  and  his  coat  hut- 
toned  to  the  throat. 

"  Thou  art  not  yet  in  hed?  "  —  he  said,  as  tliough 
in  vexation. 

"  Thou  hast  sat  a  long  time  this  e\ening  witli 
Anna  Sergyeevna,"  —  remarked  ^Vrkady,  \\  ithoiit 
replying  to  his  (juestion. 

"  Yes,  I  was  sitting  with  her  all  the  while  that 
you  and  Katerina  Sergyeevna  were  playing  on 
the  piano." 

"I  was  not  ])laying  .  .  .  ."  hegan  Arkadx, 
and  stopped  shoi-t.  He  felt  the  tears  NveUiiig  uj) 
in  his  eyes  and  he  did  not  wish  to  weep  in  the  i)res- 
ence  of  his  jeering  friend. 


173 


XVIII 

On  the  following  day,  when  ^Nladtun*-'.  Odintzoft' 
made  her  appearance  at  tea,  Bazaroff  sat  for  a 
long  time  bent  over  his  cup,  then  suddenly  cast  a 
glance  at  her.  .  .  She  turned  toward  him,  as 
though  he  had  nudged  her,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  her  face  had  grown  somewhat  paler  over^ 
night.  She  soon  went  away  to  her  own  room  and 
did  not  appear  again  until  breakfast.  From  early 
morning  the  \\eather  had  been  rainy,  and  walking 
was  impossible.  The  whole  company  assembled 
in  the  drawing-room.  ^Vi'kady  got  the  last  num- 
ber of  the  newspaper  and  began  to  read  aloud. 
The  Princess,  according  to  her  wont,  first  ex- 
pressed amazement  on  her  face,  exactly  as  though 
he  were  plotting  something  improper,  then  riveted 
her  eyes  maliciously  u])on  him ;  but  he  paid  no  at- 
tention to  her. 

"  Evgeny  Vasilievitch," — said  Anna  Sergye- 

evna,  — "  come  to  mv  room I  want  to  ask 

vou  ....  vou  mentioned  yesterday  a  guide  .  .  ." 

She  I'ose  and  went  toward  the  door.  The  Prin- 
cess glanced  around  with  an  ex})ressi()n  which 
seemed  to  say,  "  Look,  look,  how  astonished  1 
am!  "  and  again  bored  her  eyes  into  Arkady,  but 

174 


FATHERS  AM)  Cllll.DHKX 

he  raised  his  voice,  and  excliangiii^-  a  i^hmci'  w  illi 
Katya,  beside  whom  lie  was  sitting,  went  on 
reading. 

Madame  0(h'ntzott',  with  hasly  slcj)s.  bclook 
herself  to  her  boudoir.  Baziiroff  briskly  followed 
her,  without  raising  his  eyes,  and  merely  eatehing 
with  his  ear  the  faint  whirr  and  lustle  of  her 
silken  gown,  which  was  gliding  on  ifi  front  of  him. 
JNladame  Odintzoff  dro})|)ed  into  the  same  aini- 
chair  in  which  she  had  sat  on  the  preceding  e\en- 
ing,  and  BazarofF  resumed  his  former  place. 

"  So  what  is  the  title  of  that  booki*  "  —  she  1k'- 
gan,  after  a  brief  silence. 

"  Pelouze  et  Fremy,  '  Notions  Generales,'  "... 
replied  Bazaroff.  — "  But  I  can  also  recommend 
to  vou  Ganot,  '  Traite  elementaiie  de  Phvsiciue 
Experimentale.'  In  this  work  the  illustiations  are 
exact,  and,  on  the  whole,  that  manual  ... 

Madame  Odintzoff  stretched  out  her  hand. — 
"  Evgeny  Vasilievitch,  pardon  me,  but  T  ha\e  not 
summoned  you  hither  for  the  purpose  of  discus- 
sing manuals.  I  wished  to  renew  oin-  conversa- 
tion of  last  night.  You  went  away  so  suddenly. 
.  .  You  will  not  find  it  irksome?  " 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  Anna  Sergyeevna. 
But,  dear  me,  what  was  it  we  were  talking  about 
last  night?  " 

Madame  Odintzoif  ca.st  a  sidelong  gliuiee  al 
BazaroiF.  — "  We  were  talking  about  bappiness, 
I  believe.     I  was  telling  you  about  my.self.     H> 

175 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

the  way,  I  have  nieiitioiicd  the  word  '  hap2)iness.  ' 
Tell  me  why,  even  when  we  are  enjoying  music, 
for  exami)le,  a  fine  evening,  a  conversation  with 
sympathetic  persons,— why  does  it  all  seem  rather 
a  hint  of  some  illimitahle  happiness,  which  exists 
somewhere  or  other,  than  real  happiness— that  is, 
the  sort  such  as  we  ourselves  possess?  Why  is 
this?  Or,  perhaps,  you  do  not  feel  anything  of 
that  sort?" 

"  You  know  the  adage:  '  That  place  is  fair 
where  we  are  not,'  "—returned  BazarofF;— "  he- 
sides,  you  j^ourself  said  last  night  that  you  are 
dissatisfied.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  such 
thoughts  do  not  enter  mv  head." 

"  Perhaps  they  seem  ridiculous  to  you?" 
"  No,  but  they  do  not  enter  my  head." 
"  Really  ?    Do  you  know,  I  should  very  much 
like  to  know  what  you  think  about?  " 
"  What?    I  do  not  understand  you." 
"  Listen,  I  have  long  wanted  to  have  an  expla- 
nation with  you.    There  is  no  necessity  for  telling 
you — you  know  that  yourself — that  you  do  not 
belong  to  the  class  of  ordinary  men : — you  are  still 
young— all  life  is  before  you.    For  what  are  you 
preparing  yourself?     What  future  awaits  you? 
I  mean  to  say— what  goal  do  you  wish  to  attain? 
whither    are    you    going?    what    have    you     in 
your  soul?— in  a  word,  who  are  you?  what  are 
vou?" 

"  You    amaze   me,    Anna    Sergyeevna.     You 

176 


FATHERS  AM)  CIIILDUKX 

know  that  1  am  occupied  with  tlie  natural  sciences. 
And  as  to  who  I  am  .  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  Avho  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  ah-eady  informed  you  that  J  am  to  he 
a  country  doctor." 

Anna  Sergyeevna  made  a  movement  of  im- 
patience.—" Why  do  you  say  that?  You  do  not 
heheve  that  yourself.  Arkady  might  answei-  me 
in  that  manner,  but  not  you." 

"  But  why  should  Arkady " 

"  Will  you  sto]:)  ?  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  sat- 
isfied with  so  humble  an  activity,  and  are  not  you 
j^ourself  forever  asserting  that  medicine  does  not 
exist  for  you?  You — with  your  })ride — a  district 
doctor!  You  answer  me  in  that  ^^'ay  ^^•ith  the  ob- 
ject of  getting  rid  of  me  because  you  have  no 
confidence  in  me.  But  do  you  know,  Kvgeny 
Vasilitch,  I  have  learned  to  understand  you: 
I  myself  have  been  poor  and  proud,  like  you: 
I  have  passed,  perhaps,  through  the  same  trials 
as  you." 

"  All  that  is  very  fine,  Anna  Sergyeevna.  but 
you  must  excuse  me;  .  .  .  in  general,  I  have  not 
been  used  to  expressing  myself;  and  between  yon 
and  me  there  is  such  a  gulf " 

"  What  gulf  ?— Are  you  aoing  to  tell  me  again 
that  I  am  an  aristocrat?  Enough.  Evgeny  Xn- 
sihtch;  it  seems  to  me  that  1  have  demonstrated 

to  you " 

"Yes,  and  in  addition  to  that,"— interrupted 

177 


FATHERS  AM)  CHILDREN 

Haziiroff,  — "  what  is  the  use  ol'  (liseussiug  a 
future,  M'hich,  in  the  main,  does  not  depend  on 
us?  If  an  opportunity  to  do  sometliing  fine 
should  turn  up — very  good;  and  if  it  does  not  turn 
up — at  all  events,  one  can  be  satisfied  that  one  has 
not  prated  uselessl}^  in  advance.  .  ." 

"  You  call  a  friendly  chat  prating  ....  or, 
perhaps,  you  do  not  regard  me  as  a  woman  worthy 
of  your  confidence  ?    You  scorn  us  all,  j^ou  know." 

"  I  do  not  scorn  you,  Anna  Sergyeevna,  you 
know  that." 

"  Xo,  I  know  nothing.  .  .  .  But  let  us  assume 
that  I  understand  your  reluctance  to  talk  about 
your  future  vocation ;  but  what  is  taking  place  in 
you  at  the  present  moment " 

"  Taking  place!  "  —  repeated  Razaroff,  —  "  as 
tliough  I  were  some  kingdom  or  other,  or  a  soci- 
ety! In  any  case,  it  is  not  in  the  least  interesting; 
and,  moreover,  can  a  man  always  say  aloud  every- 
thing that  is  '  taking  place  in  him'?  " 

"  But  I  do  not  see  wlty  it  is  impossible  to  speak 
out  everything  which  one  has  on  one's  soul." 

"  Can  you?  " — inquired  Bazaroff. 

'''  I  can," — replied  Anna  Sergyeevna,  after  a 
slight  hesitation. 

BazarofF  bowed  his  head.  —  "  You  are  more  for- 
tunate than  I." 

Anna  Sergyeevna  looked  inquiringly  at  him. — 
"  As  you  like,"  —  she  went  on;  — "  but,  neverthe- 
less, something  tells  me  that  it  is  not  for  nothing 

178 


FATTTET^S    AM)    (IIILDKKX 

that  we  have  beeoine  iiiliiiialc,  that  \vc  shall  hr 
good  friends.  1  am  convinced  tliat  —  how  shall  1 
say  it— tliis  intensity,  tliis  Tcserve  ol"  yoms,  will 
vanish  in  the  end." 

"  And  have  you  noticed  in  nic  reserve  .  .  .  how 
was  it  you  expressed  it  .  .  .  intensity?" 
les. 

BazarofF  rose  and  went  to  the  wiiidow.  — "  Aih\ 
you  woukl  hke  to  know  the  cause  of  that  reserve? 
—  you  would  like  to  know  what  is  taking-  place  in 
mef 

"  Yes," — repeated  Madame  Odintzoff',  with  a 
certain  alarm,  which  had  hitherto  l)een  unknown 
to  her. 

"  And  5'ou  will  not  be  angry?  " 

"  No." 

"  No?  "  —  Bazaroff  was  standing  with  his  l)ack 
to  her.  — "  Then  j'ou  must  know  that  1  love  you 
stupidly,  madly.  .  .  That  is  what  you  ha\  t-  hecn 
trying  to  get." 

Madame  Odintzoff  stretched  both  arms  out  in 
front  of  her,  but  Bazaroff  leaned  his  brow  against 
the  window-pane.  He  was  suffocating:  his  whole 
body  was  visibly  quivering.  But  this  was  not  the 
quiver  of  j-outhful  timidity,  not  the  sweet  terror 
of  the  first  confession,  which  had  taken  possession 
of  him;  it  w^as  passion  thi-()b])ing  in  him,  strong 
and  heavy — passion  resembling  wrath,  and.  per- 
haps,   allied    to    it ^fadame    Odintzoff 

was  terrified  at  him,  and  sony  I'or  him. 

179 


FATIIKUS    AND    CIIILDREX 

"  Evoeny  Vasilitcli,"  —  she  said,  and  wvol- 
iintary  tenderness  resounded  in  her  voice. 

He  wheeled  hastily  round.  Hung  a  devouring 
glance  at  her,  —  and  seizing  hoth  her  hands,  sud- 
denly drew  her  to  his  hreast. 

She  did  not  innnediately  free  herself  from  his 
emhrace :  hut  a  moment  later  she  was  standing  far 
away  in  a  corner  and  gazing  thence  at  Bazaroff . 
He  rushed  toward  her.  .  .  . 

"  You  have  not  understood  me  aright," — she 
whis]3ered  in  swift  alarm.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
if  he  took  another  step  she  should  shriek.  —  Baza- 
roff bit  his  lip  and  left  the  room. 

Half  an  hoin-  later  a  maid  handed  Anna  Ser- 
gyeevna  a  note  from  Bazaroff;  it  consisted  of 
only  a  single  line:  "  Am  I  to  go  away  to-day — 
or  may  I  stay  until  to-morrow?  "  —  "  Why  go 
away?  I  did  not  understand  vou — you  did  not 
understand  me,"— Anna  Sergyeevna  replied  to 
him,  and  thought  to  herself,  "  And  I  did  not  un- 
derstand myself  either." 

She  did  not  sliow  herself  until  dinner,  and  kept 
pacing  back  and  forth  in  her  room  with  her  hands 
crossed  behind  hei\  lialting  from  time  to  time, 
ll()^v  in  front  of  the  window,  then  in  front  of  the 
mirror,  and  slow  ly  ])assing  her  handkerchief  over 
her  neck,  on  which  slie  still  seemed  to  feel  a  burn- 
ing spot.  She  asked  lierself  what  liad  made  her 
"  try  to  get,"  to  use  BazarofF's  expression,  his 
frankness,  and  whether  slie  had  not  suspected  any- 

180 


FATIIKKS    AM)    (  HILDin-A 

thing.  ...  "1  am  to  blame,"  she  said  aloud, 
"but  1  could  not  foresee  tliis."  Slie  fell  int(» 
thought,  and  blushed,  as  she  recalled  Ha/iirofV "s 
almost  fierce  face  when  he  had  rushed  al  iui-.  .   .   . 

"  Or?  "  —  she  suddenly  articulated,  and  halted 
and  shook  her  curls.  .  .  .  She  l)ehel(l  herself  in 
the  mirror;  her  head  thrown  back,  with  a  siiiiN 
on  the  half-})arted,  half-closed  eyes  and  lips. 
seemed,  at  that  moment,  to  be  saying  something 
to  her  which  reduced  her  to  confusion.  .  .  . 

"  No,"  she  decided  at  last, — "  God  knows 
whither  that  would  have  led;  I  must  not  jest  willi 
that;  after  all,  tranquillit}'  is  better  than  anything 
else  in  the  world." 

Her  composure  was  not  shaken;  hut  she  grew 
sad  and  even  wept  once,  not  knowing  herself  why, 
only  not  from  the  insult  which  had  been  dealt  lu  r. 
She  did  not  feel  herself  insulted:  she  felt  herseli", 
rather,  culpable.  Under  the  influence  of  divers 
confused  sensations,  the  consciousness  of  \aiiisli- 
ing  life,  the  desire  for  novelty,  she  forced  lierselt' 
to  toe  the  a})i)ointed  mark,  made  herself  look  fiii- 
ther— and  beheld  heyond  it  not  even  a  chasm, 
but  a  void  ....  or  a  horror. 


181 


XIX 

^Mistress  of  herself  as  she  was,  liigh  as  she  stood 
above  all  prejudices,  yet  Madame  OdintzofF  felt 
awkward  when  she  presented  herself  in  the  din- 
ing-room  for  dinner.  However,  it  passed  off 
(juite  successfully.  Porfiry  Platonitch  came  and 
told  various  anecdotes;  he  had  only  just  returned 
from  the  town.  Among  other  things,  he  informed 
them  that  the  governor,  Eourdaloue,  had  ordered 
his  officials  for  s])ecial  commissions  to  wear  spurs, 
by  way  of  expediting  matters,  in  case  he  should 
despatch  them  anywhere  on  horseback.  Arkady 
chatted  with  Katya  in  a  subdued  voice  and  lis- 
tened diplomaticalty  to  the  Princess.  BazarofF 
preserved  a  sullen  and  persistent  silence.  JNIa- 
dame  OdintzofF  looked  twice — not  stealthily,  but 
directly — at  his  face,  stern  and  bitter,  with  low- 
ered eyes,  with  tlie  stamp  of  scornful  decision  on 
every  feature,  and  thought,  "  Xo  .  .  no  .  .  . 
no.  .  .  ."  After  dinner  she  an({  the  entire  com- 
pany went  into  the  garden,  and,  perceiving  that 
BazarofF  wanted  to  speak  with  licr,  she  Avent  a 
few  paces  aside  and  sto])]:)ed.  He  approached 
her,  but  even  then  he  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  and 
said  dully: 

182 


FATHERS  AM)  CII11.13KKN 

"  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you,  Anna 
Sergyeevna.    You  cannot  but  be  angry  willi  nic." 

"  No,  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  Kvgeny  \'m- 
siHtch,"  — replied  ^Madame  Och'nt/off';  "  l)nl  I  am 
grieved." 

"  So  much  the  worse.  In  any  case,  I  am  sulli- 
ciently  ])unislied.  My  position,  as  yon  will  proli- 
ably  agree  with  me,  is  extremely  stuj)i(l.  \<n\ 
have  written  to  me:  'Why  go?'  ]5ul  1  cannot 
and  will  not  stay.     To-morrow  I  shall  \)v  gone." 

"  Evgeny  Vasilitch,  why  are  you  .  .  .  .  " 

"  Why  am  I  going?  " 

"  No,  that  was  not  what  I  meant  to  say." 

"  The  past  cannot  be  brought  back,  iVnna  Ser- 
gyeevna; .  .  .  and  sooner  or  later  this  must  have 
happened.  Consequently,  I  must  go.  1  under- 
stand only  one  condition  mider  which  I  could  ic- 
main;  but  that  condition  will  never  come  to  pass. 
For  you— pardon  my  audacity — do  not  lo\-e  me, 
and  will  never  love  me." 

BazarofF's  eyes  flashed  for  a  moment  iK'ueath 
his  gloomy  brows. 

Anna  Sergveevna  did  not  answer  iiini.  "  I  am 
afraid  of  this  man,"  flashed  tln-ough  her  licad. 

"  Farewell,  madam,"  said  Bazaroff,  as  though 
divining  her  thought,  and  v.ended  his  \\ a\-  to  the 
house. 

Anna  Sergyeevna  (juictly  followed  him.  and 
calhn"-  Ktitva,  took  her  arm.  .  .  She  did  not  dt- 
tach  herself  from  her  until  evening.     Slic  did  not 

183 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

play  cards,  and  laughed  a  great  deal,  which  did 
not  match  at  all  with  her  pallid,  agitated  face. 
Arkady  was  nonplussed  and  watched  her,  as 
young  men  watch;  that  is  to  say,  he  incessantly 
asked  himself:  "  AVhat  is  the  meaning  of  this?  " 
BazarofF  locked  himself  up  in  his  room;  but  he 
came  out  for  tea.  Anna  Sergyeevna  tried  to  utter 
some  kind  word  to  him,  but  she  did  not  know  how 
to  begin  the  conversation  with  him.  .  .  . 

An  unforeseen  incident  extricated  her  from  her 
dilemma:  the  butler  announced  the  arrival  of  Sit- 
nikoif. 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  in  words  the  quail-like 
manner  in  which  the  youthful  progressist  flew 
into  the  room.  Having  made  up  his  mind,  with 
the  audacity  peculiar  to  him,  to  drive  tc  the  coun- 
try-house of  a  A\oman  ^vhom  he  hardly  knew,  who 
had  never  invited  him,  but  who  was  entertaining 
— according  to  the  information  he  had  gathered — 
persons  who  were  so  clever  and  so  near  to  him, 
he  was,  nevertheless,  intimidated  to  the  very  mar- 
row of  his  bones,  and,  instead  of  uttering,  to  l)egin 
with,  the  conventional  excuses  and  greetings,  he 
stammered  out  some  nonsense  or  other,  to  the 
effect  that  Evdoksiya  Kukshin  had  sent  him  to 
inquire  after  the  health  of  Anna  Sergyeevna,  and 
that  ^Vrkiidy  Xikolaevitch  also  had  always  ex- 
pressed himself  to  him  in  "the  most  laudatory 
terms.  .  .  .  At  this  ])oint  he  broke  down  and  be- 
came confused  to  such  a  degree  that  be  sat  down 

184 


FATin^HS   AND  CTTILDRKX 

on  his  own  hat.  J?ul,  as  no  one  drove  liini  out, 
and  Anna  Scrgyeevna  even  introthieed  hiiu  to 
her  aunt  and  her  sister,  he  s])ee(hly  recovered  him- 
self and  chattered  away  famously.  The  a])i)e;ii- 
ance  of  the  common])hice  is  often  iiselid  in  life: 
it  reheves  the  tension  of  chords  too  hi<4lily  strung. 
its  sobers  self-conceited  or  self-forgetful  feelings 
by  reminding  them  of  their  clo.se  connection  with 
it.  With  Sitnikoff's  arrival  everything  became 
more  stupid  and  more  simple;  every  one  even  ate 
a  more  hearty  supper,  and  they  went  off  to  bed 
half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual. 

"  I  can  re])eat  to  thee  now,"  —  said  ^Vrkjidy.  as 
he  got  into  bed,  to  Bazaroff,  who  was  also  un- 
dressed,—" that  which  thou  saidst  to  me  one  day: 
'  Why  art  thou  so  sad?  assuredly,  thou  hast  ful- 
filled some  sacred  duty?'  "  —  for  some  time  past 
a  sort  of  hypocritically  free  and  easy  jesting  had 
been  established  between  the  two  young  men. 
which  always  serves  as  a  sign  of  secret  displeasure 
or  of  unuttered  sus])icions. 

"  I  'm  going  off  to  my  father  to-morrow,"  — 
said  Baztiroff. 

Arkady  half  sat  up  and  pr()pi)ed  himself  on 
his  elbow.  For  some  reason  or  other,  he  was 
both  astonished  and  dcliglited.  — "  Ah!  "— he 
ejaculated.  — "  And    is    that    what    makes    thee 

sad'? " 

Bazaroff  yawned.  — "  If  thou  knowest  t(X3 
much,  thou  wilt  grow  old." 

185 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"And  how  about  Anna  Sergyeeviia  ?  "  —  went 
on  Arkady. 

"  What  dost  thou  mean  about  Anna  Sergye- 
evna  { 

"  I  mean  to  say,  is  it  possible  that  she  will  allow 
thee  to  go?  " 

"  I  have  not  tied  myself  to  her." 

Arkady  reflected,  but  Bazaroff  got  into  bed 
and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

Several  minutes  elapsed  in  silence.  "Evgeny!" 
—  exclaimed  Arkadv  suddenlv. 

"  Well?  " 

"  I  'm  going  away  with  thee  to-morrow." 

Bazaroff  made  no  answer. 

"  Only  I  am  going  home," — ^xirsued  Arkady. 
— "  We  will  go  together  as  far  as  the  Khokhloff 
settlement,  and  there  thou  canst  get  horses  from 
Fctxldi.  I  should  be  glad  to  make  the  acquain- 
tance of  thy  people,  but  I  am  afraid  of  incom- 
moding them  and  thee.  Tliou  wilt  come  back  to 
us  later  on,  wilt  tliou  not  ?  " 

"  I  left  my  things  at  thy  house," — replied  Ba- 
zaroff, without  turning  round. 

"  Why  does  n  't  he  ask  me  why  I  am  going? 
and  as  suddeidy  as  liimself  ?  "  thought  Arkady. 
"  As  Ik  matter  of  fact,  why  am  I  going?  and 
why  is  lie  going?"  lie  pursued  his  medita- 
tions He  could  not  give  a  satisfactor}'  re- 
])ly  to  his  own  question,  but  his  heart  was 
lilletl   to   overflowing   witli   a   caustic   sensation 

186 


1  ATllKKS   AM)  CIIILDKKX 

He  felt  that  it  was  painrul  lo  liim  to  part 
with  that  hfe  to  which  he  liad  grown  so  accus- 
tomed; but  to  remain  alone  would  seem  somewhat 
strange.  "What  has  taken  j)lace  Ixlvvccn 
them?"  — he  argued  the  matter  with  himscU"; 
"  and  why  should  1  show  myseli'  l)ef'ore  her  after 
his  de])arture?  I  shall  make  her  tired  oi'  me  i'ov 
goodand  all;  and  1  shall  lose  my  last  hold."  He 
began  to  picture  to  himself  Anna  Sergyeevna, 
and  then  other  features  gradually  pierced  their 
way  through  the  lovely  image  of  the  young 
widow. 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  Katya,  too!  " — whispered  Ar- 
kady to  his  pillow,  on  which  a  tear  had  already 
fallen.  .  .  .  He  suddenly  flung  back  his  hair  and 
said  aloud: 

"What  the  devil  did  that  blockhead  Sitnikoif 
come  for?  " 

Bazaroft'  first  moved  in  his  bed  and  then  emit- 
ted the  following:  —  "  Thou,  brother,  art  still 
stupid,  I  perceive.  SitnikofFs  are  indispensable 
to  us.  I — mark  this— I  need  such  dolts,  lleally, 
it  is  not  the  business  of  the  gods  to  bake  ])ots!  .  ." 

"Aha,  ha!  .  .  .  ."  thought  Arkady  to  himself, 
and  only  then  was  the  wliole  l)ottomless  abyss  of 
Bazaroff's  pride  disclosed  to  him  for  an  instant. 
"  So  thou  and  I  are  gods?  that  is— thou  art  a  god, 
and  am  I  the  dolt,  I  wonder?  " 

"  Yes,"— repeated  Bazaroff  grimly,  "  tlioii 
art  still  stupid." 

187 


FATITEKS  AND  CHILDREN 

ISIadanie  OdiiitzofF  did  not  manifest  any  par- 
ticnlar  snrprise  wlien,  on  the  following  day,  Ar- 
kady told  her  that  he  was  going  away  with  Baza- 
roff ;  she  seemed  preoccupied  and  weary.  Katya 
gazed  silently  and  seriously  at  him,  the  Princess 
even  crossed  herself  under  her  shawl,  so  that  he 
might  not  perceive  it,  but  Sitnikoff,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  thoroughly  alarmed.  He  had  just 
come  to  breakfast  in  a  new,  dandified  outfit, 
which,  on  this  occasion,  was  not  Slavyanophil ;  on 
the  previous  evening  he  had  astonished  the  man 
appointed  to  wait  on  him  by  the  amount  of  body- 
linen  he  had  brought,  and,  all  of  a  sudden,  his 
comrades  were  abandoning  him!  PTe  danced  up 
and  down  a  little  and  rushed  about  like  a  hunted 
hare  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  — and  suddenly, 
almost  with  terror,  almost  with  a  shriek,  an- 
nounced that  he  intended  to  leave.  ^ladame 
OdintzofF  did  not  attem])t  to  dissuade  him. 

"  I  have  a  very  easy  calash,"  —  added  the  un- 
happy young  man,  turning  to  Arkady. — "  I  can 
drive  you,  and  Evgeny  Vasilitch  can  take  your 
tarantas,  as  it  will  be  more  convenient  that  way.'^' 

"  But  good  gracious,  it  is  not  on  your  road  at 
all,  and  I  live  far  away." 

"That  makes  no  difference,  no  difference;  I 
have  plenty  of  time,  and,  moreover.  I  have  busi- 
ness in  that  direction." 

"Connected  with  the  li(|uor  monopoly?" — in- 
quired Arkady,  quite  too  disdainfully. 

188 


FATHERS  A\D  (TIILDHKX 

But  Sitnikofr  was  in  sncli  a  stale  of  (lisj)aii 
that,  contrary  to  his  wont,  lie  did  not  even  smile. 
— "  I  assure  you  iiiv  cahish  is  e.\treniel\-  easv," 
— he  stammered,  — "  and  there  will  he  room 
for  all." 

"Do  not  grieve  INIonsieur  SitnikofV  hy  relns- 
ing," — said  Anna  Sergyeevna.  .   .   . 

Arkady  glanced  at  hei-  and  signilieantly  liowt  li 
his  head. 

The  visitors  took  their  de])arture  altei-  hi-eak- 
fast. 

As  she  bade  Bazaroff  good-bye,  Madame 
OdintzofF  offered  him  her  hand  and  said,  -  '*  \\'e 
shall  see  each  other  again,  shall  we  not ',  " 

"  At  your  command,"  —  replied  l^azai-off'. 

"  In  that  case,  we  shall  meet  again." 

Arkady  was  the  first  to  emerge  uj)on  the  porch: 
he  climbed  into  Sitnikoff's  calash.  The  butler 
respectfully  assisted  him,  but  it  would  have  given 
him  great  satisfaction  to  })eat  the  man.  or  to  weep. 
Bazaroff  took  his  ])lace  in  the  tai-antas.  When 
they  reached  tlie  Khokhloff  settlemenl.  Aikady 
waited  until  Feodot,  the  keeper  of  the  posting- 
station,  had  harnessed  the  horses,  and,  approach- 
ing the  tarantiis,  said  to  Bazaroff'  with  his  smile 
as  of  old,  "  Evgeny,  take  me  with  thee;  I  want 
to'  go  to  thy  house." 

"  Get  in,"— articulated  Bazaroff  iK'tween  his 

teeth. 

Sitnikoff,  who  was  walki?ig  u])  and  down,  whis- 

189 


FATHERS  AM)  CHILDREN 

tliim'  eiieroeticallv  around  the  wheels  of  his  calash, 
merely  gaped  when  he  Iieard  these  words,  but  Ar- 
kady coolly  took  his  things  out  of  the  calash, 
seated  liimself  beside  Razaroff,  — and,  politely  sa- 
luting his  previous  travelling  companion,  shouted, 
"  Drive  on!  "  The  tarantas  rolled  off'  and  soon 
disajjpeared  from  view.  .  .  .  Sitnikoff,  thor- 
oughly discomfited,  looked  at  his  coachman,  but 
the  latter  was  making  the  tail  of  his  whip-lash 
play  over  the  side  horse.  Then  Sitnikoff  sprang 
into  his  calash,  and  thundering  out  at  two  passing 
peasants:  "Put  on  your  caps,  you  fools!"  — 
dragged  himself  off  to  the  town,  where  he  arrived 
very  late,  and  where,  on  the  following  day  at 
Madame  Kukshin's,  the  two  "  disgusting,  proud 
boors  "  caught  it  lieavily. 

As  he  took  his  seat  in  the  tarantas  beside  Raza- 
roff ,  Arkady  pressed  his  hand  warmly,  and  for  a 
long  time  said  nothing.  RazarofF  appeared  to 
understand  and  value  both  the  pressure  and  the 
silence.  He  had  not  slept  all  the  preceding  night, 
and  for  several  days  past  he  had  not  smoked, 
and  had  eaten  almost  nothing.  His  haggard 
profile  stood  out  gloomily  and  sharply  from  be- 
neath his  cap,  which  was  pulled  down  over  his 
eyes. 

"  Well,  brother,"  — he  said  at  last,  —  "  give  me 
a  cigar.  .  .  .  And  look,  see  if  my  tongue  is 
yellow." 

"  It  is," — replied  Arkady. 

190 


FATIIKUS  AND  CIIILDHKX 

"Well,    yes, and    llic    ci^ar    lias    no 

flavour.     The  niacliinc  is  out  of  onki." 

"Thou  really  liast  ehanocd  of  late,"  — re- 
marked ^Vrkady. 

"Never  mind!  we  shall  ri^lit  ourselves.  One 
tiling  is  a  bore,— my  mother  is  sueli  a  Icndrr- 
hearted  woman:  if  your  ])auneh  has  n't  <•!•,, vm,  l,i,. 
and  you  don't  eat  ten  times  a  day.  she  simply 
pines.  Well,  my  father  is  all  right:  he  has  hcen 
through  all  sorts  of  things  himself.  Xo,  it 
is  impossible  to  smoke,"— he  added,  and  Ihing  his 
eigar  into  the  dust  of  the  highway. 


(( 


It  is  twenty-five  versts  to  thy  estate?  "  —  asked 
Arkady. 

"  Yes.  But  ask  that  wiseacre  tliere."  —  lit 
pointed  at  the  peasant  on  the  box,  Feodot's  hired 
man. 

But  the  wiseacre  replied:  "  AMio  knows?— the 
versts  are  not  measured," — with  his  (pieer  aeeenl. 
and  went  on  reviling  the  shaft-horse  because  it 
jerked  its  head. 

"Yes,  yes," — began  Bazaroff,  — "  a  lesson  lor 
you,  my  young  friend,  a  sort  of  edil'ying  example. 
The  devil  knows  what  nonsense  it  is!  Kvery  man 
hano\s  on  a  hair,  tlie  abyss  may  yawn  iKiieatli  him 
at  any  moment,  and  he  invents  all  sorts  of  un- 
pleasant things  for  himself  to  boot:  lie  niiiis  his 
own  life." 

"At  what  art  thou  liinting^  "-   incjuired    Ar 
kady. 

191 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  1  'ill  not  liiiitiiig  at  anything;  1  'in  saying 
straight  out  that  both  you  and  1  have  been  be- 
having very  stupidly.  What 's  the  use  of  explain- 
ing! But  I  have  already  observed  in  the  clinic 
that  if  any  one  gets  angry  at  his  pain,  that  man  in- 
fallibly conquers  it." 

"  I  do  not  understand  thee  in  the  least,"  —  said 
Arkadv.  — "  I  should  not  think  thou  hadst  anv 
cause  to  complain." 

.  "  And  if  thou  dost  not  understand  me  in  the 
least,  then  I  will  tell  thee  this:  In  my  opinion,  it 
is  better  to  break  stones  on  the  highwa}^  than  to 
permit  a  woman  to  take  possession  of  even  so 
much  as  the  tip  of  thy  finger.     That 's  all.  .  ." 

Ba/aroff  came,  near  uttering  his  favourite 
word,  "  romanticism"  —  but  restrained  himself, 
and  said,  "  nonsense.  —  Thou  wilt  not  believe  me 
now,  but  I  will  tell  thee:  thou  and  I  have  fallen 
into  feminine  societv,  and  we  have  found  it  agree- 
able;  but  to  abandon  such  society  is  like  drench- 
ing one's  self  with  cold  water  on  a  hot  day. — A 
man  has  no  time  to  occupy  himself  with  such 
trifles ;  a  man  ought  to  be  ferocious,  says  a  capital 
Spanish  proverb.  I  suppose,  wiseacre,"— he 
added,  addressing  the  peasant  on  the  box,  —  "  that 
thou  hast  a  wife?  " 

The  peasant  exhibited  his  flat,  mole-eyed  face 
to  the  two  friends. 

"  A  wife?  Ves.  How  could  I  be  Avithout  a 
wife?" 

192 


FATTTEKS   AM)  C  1 1  1 1 .1  )in:\ 

•'Dost  thou  iK'ut  her?" 

"  ^ly  wife?  ^\11  sorts  of  things  happc  ii.  We 
don't  beat  her  witliout  cause." 

"  And  that  is  well.  Well,  and  does  she  Ijcat 
thee?" 

The  peasant  twitched  tlie  i-eins.-  -"  \\  hat  a 
word  thou  hast  said,  master.  Thou  wilt  keep  jest- 
ing.  .   .   ."     Obviously,  he  was  ollended. 

Arkady  laughed  in  a  constrained  way.  and  lia- 
zaroif  turned  aside  and  never  o])ened  liis  month 
again  the  w^hole  way. 

The  five  and  twenty  versts  seemed  to  iVi-kady 
fully  fifty.  But  at  last,  on  the  declivity  of  a  slop- 
ing hill,  a  tiny  hamlet  was  revealed  to  view,  where 
dwelt  the  parents  of  T5a/arofl^.  iVlongside  of  it. 
in  a  young  birch  grove,  a  small  manor-liouse  w  itli 
a  thatched  roof  was  visible.  I3y  the  first  cottage 
stood  two  peasants  with  their  caps  on  (luai-ivlHug. 
"  Thou  art  a  big  hog," — said  one  to  the  other. — 
"  But  thou  art  worse  than  a  small  sucking-|)ig." 
— "  And  thy  wife  is  a  witch,"  retorted  tlie  other. 

"  From  the  unceremoniousness  of  tluii-  iiitti- 
course," — remarked  Bazaroff  to  ^Vrkady.  — '"  and 
from  the  playful  turns  of  their  s])eech,  thon  canst 
judge  that  my  father's  serfs  are  not  too  niucli  o|)- 
pressed.  But  yonder  is  he  himself  coming  out 
on  the  porch  of  his  dwelling.  He  must  have 
heard  the  carriage-bell.  'T  is  he,  't  is  he  I  icc- 
ognise  his  figure.  Ehe,  he!  but  how' grey  he  has 
grown,  poor  man !  " 

193 


XX 

Bazaroff  leaned  out  of  the  tarantas,  and  Arkady 
rhrust  his  head  out  behind  his  friend's  back  and 
perceived  on  the  httle  porch  of  the  manor-house 
a  tall,  thin  man,  with  dishevelled  hair,  and  a  thin, 
aquiline  nose,  clad  in  an  old  military  coat  open  on 
the  breast.  He  was  standing  with  his  legs  far 
apart  smoking  a  long  pipe  and  blinking  at  the 
sun. 

The  horses  came  to  a  halt. 

"  Thou  art  come,  at  last,"  —  said  BazarofF's 
father,  still  continuing  to  smoke,  although  his 
chibouque  fairly  leaped  in  his  fingers.  — "  Come, 
get  out,  get  out,  we  will  embrace  and  kiss." 

He  began  to  embrace  his  son.  ..."  Eniiisha, 
Kniiisha,"  rang  out  a  quavering  female  voice. 
Tlie  door  flew  open  and  on  the  threshold  apj^eai'ed 
a  plumj),  short  old  woman,  in  a  white  cap,  and  a 
short,  motlej'-hued  jacket.  She  cried  out  and 
staggered,  and  certainly  would  have  fallen  had 
not  BazarofF  su])])orted  her.  Her  plump  arms 
instantly  twined  tliemselves  around  his  neck,  her 
head  pressed  close  to  his  breast,  and  all  became 
still.    Nothing  was  au(li])le,  save  her  broken  sobs. 

Old  Baziii-off  drew  deep  breaths  and  blinked 
worse  than  before. 

194 


FATIIE1?S   AM)  C'II1L1)1{KN 

"Come,  enough,  enoiigli,  iVn'slia!  stop,"  — he 
said,  exchanging  a  glance  with  Arkady,  who  stood 
motionless  bj-  the  tarantas,  while  the  peasant  on 
the  box  even  turned  away:  —  "  Tliis  is  not  in  the 
least  necessary!  please  stop." 

"  Akh,  Vasilv  Ivanitch," — stam.Miered  the  old 
woman,  — "  it  's  an  age  since  I  have  seen  my  dar- 
ling, my  Kniushenka  .  .  ."  and,  nitliout  releas- 
ing her  arms,  she  turned  her  face,  all  wet  with 
tears,  agitated  and  moved,  from  Bazarofi",  gazed 
at  him  with  blissful  and  comical  eyes,  and  again 
fell  upon  his  breast. 

"  Well,  yes,  of  course,  this  is  all  in  the  nature  of 
things,"  —  said  Vasily  Ivanitch,  — "  only  we  had 
better  go  into  the  house.  A  visitor  has  come  with 
EfVgen3\  Excuse  me," — he  added,  turning  -io 
Arkady,  and  with  a  sliglit  scrape  of  tlie  foot, — 
"you  understand  woman's  weakness;  well,  and 
the  mother's  heart " 

But  his  own  lips  and  eyebrows  were  twitching 
and  his  chin  was  quivering;  .  .  .  .  but  he  was  e\  i- 
dentlv  trying  to  control  himself  and  to  appear 
almost  indifferent.     xVrkady  saluted  him. 

"  Come,  mother,  really  now,"  — said  BazarofV, 
and  led  the  feeble  old  woman  into  the  house. 
After  seating  her  in  a  comfortable  arni-cliaii-.  he 
once  more  hastily  embraced  his  fathc  r.  and  intro- 
duced Arkady  to  him. 

"  I  am  heartilv  glad  to  make  your  ac-(|iiain- 
tance," — said  Vasilv  Ivanovitch,  — "  onlv  be  not 

195 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREX 

exacting:  everything  here  in  my  house  is  simple, 
on  a  mihtary  footing.  Arina  Vlasievna,  do  me 
the  favour  to  cahii  thyself:  what  pusillanimity  is 
this?    Our  guest  must  think  hardly  of  thee." 

"  Dear  little  father,"— said  the  old  woman, 
through  her  tears:  — "  I  have  not  the  honour  to 
know  your  name  and  patronymic " 

"  Arkady  Xikolaitch,"  Vasily  Ivanitch  pom- 
pously prompted  her,  in  an  undertone. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  'm  stupid."  The  old  woman 
blew  her  nose  and,  bending  her  head  now  to  the 
right,  now  to  the  left,  carefully  wiped  first  one 
eve,  then  the  other.  "  You  must  excuse  me.  You 
see  I  thought  I  should  die  before  I  saw  my 
da  .  .  o  a  .   .  .  a  .  .  arling." 

"  But  now  you  have  lived  to  see  him,  madam," 
—  put  in  Vasily  Ivanitch.  —  "  Taniushka,"  he  said, 
addressing  a  barefooted  girl  of  thirteen,  in  a 
bright  scarlet  print  gown,  who  was  peeping  tim- 
idly from  behind  the  door,  —  "  fetch  the  mistress 
a  glass  of  water — on  a  salver,  dost  thou  hear? — 
and  you,  gentlemen,"  —  he  added,  with  a  certain 
old-fashioned  ])layfulness,  — "  allow  me  to  invite 
vou  into  the  study  of  a  veteran  in  retreat." 

"  Let  me  hug  thee  just  a  little  more,  Eni- 
lishetchka," — moaned  Arina  Vlasievna.  Baz- 
aroff  bent  over  her.  "  But  what  a  beauty  thou 
hast  grown  to  be!  " 

"  Well,  he  's  not  exactly  a  beauty," — remarked 
Vasily  Ivanitch; — "  but  he's  a  man;  as  the  say- 

196 


FATHERS   A\l)  (  IIILDUF.X 

in<^'  is,  honniic  fail.  I>iil  now,  1  liojx',  Antia 
Miisieviia,  tliat,  after  li:i\iii;4'  satiated  lliy  ma- 
ternal licart,  tlioii  will  allciid  l(»  llu-  IVcdiim- 
of  thy  dear  guests,  l)eeause,  as  thou  kiiowcst,  it  is 
not  fitting'  to  feed  a  niglitingale  on  I  aides."  ' 

The  ohl  woman  rose  from  licr  chair.  "This 
very  moment,  Vasily  Ivaniteli,  the  Lal)le  will  he 
set;  I  will  run  to  the  kitchen  myself  and  ordci- 
the  samovar  to  he  ]3re])ared;  they  shall  have  every- 
thing, everything.  AVhy,  it 's  three  years  since  I 
saw  him,  fed  him,  gave  him  to  drink,  and  is  that 
easy  to  hear?  " 

"  Well,  see  to  it,  housewife;  hustle  ahout  and 
do  not  put  thyself  to  shame;  and  do  you,  gentle- 
men, be  so  good  as  to  follow  me.  Here  's  Timo- 
feitch  has  presented  himself  to  greet  thee,  K\'- 
geny.  And  he 's  delighted,  I  think,  the  old 
watch-dog.  AVhat?  thou  art  delighted,  art  thou 
not,  old  watch-dog?     1  pray  you  to  follow  me." 

And  Vasily  Ivanitch  hustled  on  ahead,  shnffiing 
and  dragging  his  patched  slii)])ers. 

His  entire  httle  house  consisted  of  six  tiny 
rooms.  One  of  them,  the  one  into  which  li<  Ui\ 
our  friends,  was  called  the  study.  A  fat-legged 
table,  with  an  accumulation  of  dust  wliich  liad 
turned  black  with  age,  with  d.oeuments  wliicli 
looked  as  though  they  had  been  smoked,  occupied 
the  entire  space  between  the  two  windows:  on  tlu- 
walls  hung  Turkish  guns,  ka/ak   whii)s.  sabres. 

1  "Fair  words  butter  no  parsnips."— Transi-atoh. 

197 


FATIIKliS  AND  CHILDREX 

two  maps,  sev-eral  anatomical  drawings,  a  portrait 
of  Hufeland,  a  monogram  of  hair  in  a  black 
frame,  and  a  diploma  nnder  glass;  a  leather- 
covered  concli,  cruslied  down  and  tattered  in 
spots,  stood  between  two  hnge  enpboards  of  Kare- 
lian birch  wood;  on  the  slielves,  in  disorder,  were 
crowded  books,  small  boxes,  stuffed  birds,  bottles 
and  phials;  in  one  corner  stood  a  broken  electrical 
machine. 

"  I  warned  you,  my  dear  visitor," — began 
Vasily  Ivanitch, — "  that  we  live  here,  so  to  speak, 
in  bivouac.  .  ." 

"  Come,  stop  that,  why  dost  thou  make  apolo- 
gies? " — interrupted  Bazaroff.  —  "  Kirsanoff  is 
very  well  aware  that  thou  and  I  ai'e  not  Croesuses, 
and  that  thou  hast  not  a  palace.  Where  are  we  to 
put  him,  that 's  the  question?  " 

"  Good  gracious,  Evgeny;  there  is  a  capital 
chamber  yonder  in  my  wing;  he  will  be  very  com- 
fortable there." 

"  So  thou  hast  set  up  a  wing?  " 

"  Of  course,  sir;  where  the  bath  is,  sir," — put  in 
Timofeitch. 

"  That  is  to  say,  alongside  the  bath," — hastily 
subjoined  Vasily  Ivanitch.  — "  But  it  is  summer 
now.  ...  I  '11  run  over  there  at  once  and  arrange 
things;  and,  in  the  meantime,  Timofeitch,  thou 
hadst  better  bring  in  their  things.  Of  course  T 
place  my  study  at  thy  disposal,  Evgeny.  Suum 
cuique." 

198 


FATHERS  AND  CIIII.DUEX 

"  There  you  have  il!  A  very  ainiisino- (,|,1  man, 
and  as  kind  as  possihle,"  addid  lia/arofl",  as 
soon  as  \^asi'ly  Ivaniteli  left  tlie  i-ooiii.  ■.Iiisl 
sueli  anotlier  eeeentrie  as  tliy  latlici',  otilx  after 
another  fashion.    He  eluitters  a  <>reat  deal."' 

"  And  thy  motlier.  a])pai-ently,  is  a  \  try  fine 
woman,"  — remarked  ^Vrkady. 

"  Yes,  she  's  a  guileless  creature.  Just  wateh 
what  a  (h'nner  she  '11  giv^e  us! '' 

"  You  were  not  exjjeeted  to-(hiy,  dear  little 
father;  they  have  brought  no  beef,"  —  said  'I'imo- 
feitch,  who  had  just  (h-agged  in  Bazaroff 's  trunk. 

"  We  '11  get  along  without  the  beef;  ii'  there  is 
none,  it  cannot  be  helped.  Poverty,  as  the  atlage 
goes,  is  no  crime." 

"How  many  souls'  has  thy  father?" — sud- 
denly  inquired  Arkady. 

"  The  estate  does  not  belong  to  him,  but  to  my 
mother;  there  are  fifteen  soids,  if  I  remember 
rightly." 

"  There  are  twenty-two  in  all,"  —  remarked 
Timofeitch  with  displeasure. 

The  scuffling  of  slippers  became  audible,  and 
Vasily  Ivaniteli  made  his  appearance  again.  "In 
a  few  minutes  your  chamber  a\  ill  be  ready  to  ir- 
ceive  you,"  — he  exclaimed  triumphantly,  —  "  ^Vr- 
kady'.  .  .  .  Xikolaitch?  I  believe  that  is  what 
you  deign  to  be  called?  And  here  's  a  servant  for 
you,"  — he  added,  ])ointing  at  a  boy  with  elosely- 

1  Male  serfs.      Transi.ator. 

199 


FATHERS  AND  CIITT.DREX 

clipped  liair  in  a  blue  kalian  whieli  was  torn  on 
the  elbows,  and  some  one  else's  shoes,  who  had 
entered  with  him.  —  "  His  name  is  Fedka.  ^Vgain 
I  repeat  it,  —  although  my  son  forbids  me,  —  be  not 
exacting.  However,  he  knows  how  to  fill  a  pipe. 
You  smoke,  of  course?  " 

"  I  smoke  chiefly  cigars," — replied  Arkady. 

"  And  vou  behave  very  sensibly,  I  myself  give 
the  preference  to  cigars,  but  in  our  remote  region 
it  is  extremely  difficult  to  obtain  them." 

"  Come,  have  done  with  singing  Lazarus," — in- 
terrupted Baztiroff  once  more.  "  Thou  hadst 
better  sit  down  there  on  the  couch  and  let  me  have 
a  look  at  thee. 

Vasily  Ivanitch  laughed  and  sat  down.  He 
greatly  resembled  his  son  in  face,  only  his  fore- 
head was  lower  and  narrower  and  his  mouth  some- 
what wider,  and  he  kept  in  incessant  motion, 
twitched  his  shoulders  as  though  his  coat  cut  him 
under  the  arms,  winked,  coughed  and  twiddled  his 
fingers,  while  his  son  was  distinguished  fi'om  him 
})y  a  certain  careless  impassivity. 

"Singing  Lazarus!" — re|:>eated  Vasily  Ivan- 
itch.  "  Thou  must  not  think,  Kvgeny,  that  I  am 
trying  to  move  our  guest  to  pity,  so  to  speak;  as 
much  as  to  say, — just  see  in  what  a  desolate  hole 
we  live.  On  the  contrary,  1  hold  the  opinion  that 
for  a  rations^  man  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  deso- 
late hole.    At  all  events,  I  try,  to  the  extent  of  my 

200 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDKKX 

ability,  not  to  get  moss-grown,  as  the  saying  is, 
not  to  lag  behind  the  age." 

Vasily  Ivanitch  pulled  from  liis  jxH-kct  a  new 
yellow  bandana  handkerehief,  whicli  Ik  had  con- 
trived to  eateh  up  as  he  ran  to  Arkjidy's  room, 
and  proceeded  as  he  flourislied  it  in  the  air:  "  1 
am  not  speaking  of  the  fact  tliat  I,  t'oi-  exaniplf, 
not  without  vSensible  sacrifices  on  my  own  part, 
have  put  my  peasants  on  quit-rent  and  have  given 
them  my  lands  by  halves.  I  regarded  that  as  my 
rttity,  common  sense  itself  commands  it  in  tliis 
case,  although  other  proprietors  are  not  even 
thinking  of  it:  I  am  speaking  of  tlie  sciences  ol 
culture." 

"  Yes;  I  see  thou  hast  vonder  '  Tlie  Friend  of 
Health  '  for  1855,"  remarked  Bazai'off. 

"  A  comrade  sent  it  to  me,  for  old  accjuain- 
tance's  sake,"  — said  Vasily  Ivanitcli;  — "  l)ut  we 
have  some  conce])tion  of  plirenology,"  — he  added, 
addressing  himself,  however,  more  ])artieularly  to 
Arkady,  and  pointing  at  a  small  i)Iastcr  luad 
which  stood  on  the  cupboard  broken  np  into  nniii- 
bered  squares.  —  "  SclKinlein  also  has  not  re- 
mained unknown  to  us  — and  Hademacher." 

"  And  do  people  still  believe  in  Kademaelier  in 
the  *  *  *  Government?  "  asked  ]?a/arofV. 

Vasily  Ivanitch  began  to  cough.  "  In  tlie 
Government  ....  Of  course,  gentlenien.  you 
know  best;  how  can  \ve  vie  with  you?    ^'ou  have 

201 


FATHERS  AND  ClllLDREX 

come  to  supersede  us,  you  see.  And  in  my  time, 
also,  a  certain  humouralist  Hoffman,  and  a  ce? 
tain  Brown,  with  his  vitalism,  seemed  veiy  ridicu 
lous,  but  they  had  made  a  great  noise  once  upon  a 
time.  Some  new  person  has  taken  Rademacher's 
place  with  you;  you  bow  dovvai  before  him,  and 
twenty  years  hence,  probably,  people  will  laugh  at 
him  also." 

"  I  will  tell  thee,  for  thy  consolation," — said 
Bazaroff,  — "  that  nowadays  we  laugh  at  medi- 
cine in  general,  and  we  bow  down  before  no  one." 

"  How  is  that?  Surely  thou  art  going  to  be  a 
doctor? "  * 

"  I  am,  but  the  one  does  not  prevent  the  other." 

Vasily  Ivanitch  poked  his  third  finger  into  his 
pi])e,  M'here  a  little  burning  ashes  still  lingered. — 
"Well,  perhaps,  perhaps  — I  will  not  contradict. 
For  what  am  I? — A  retired  staff-doctor,  voila 
tout,  and  now  turned  agriculturist.  —  I  served  in 
your  grandfather's  brigade,"  —  he  addressed  him- 
self once  more  to  Arkady.  —  "Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir; 
I  have  seen  man^'  sights  in  my  day.  And  in  what 
company  have  not  I  been,  n\  ith  ^^'hom  have  not  I 
consorted! — I,  this  very  I,  whom  you  are  pleased 
to  see  before  you,  1  have  felt  tlie  pulse  of  Prince 
Wittgenstein  and  of  Zhukovsky !  I  used  to  know 
every  one  of  tliose  men,  in  the  army  of  the  South, 
in  the  year  'fourteen,  you  understand "  (here 
Vasily  Ivanitch  pursed  up  his  lips  significantly). 
'Well,   and  of  course  \\\\  b\isiness  lay   apart; 

202 


FATIIKKS  AND  ClIli.DHKN 

know  how  to  use  your  liuicrl  and  llial  "s  iiiounh' 
But  your  grandl'atlRT  was  a  vtiy  ^iiatly  re- 
spected man,  a  genuine  warrior." 

"  Confess,  he  was  a  good  deal  of  a  hloeklu  ad." 
— said  Ba/aroff'  hizily. 

"  Akh,  Evgeny,  liow  thou  dost  exi)ress  tliysell'I 
do  show  mercy.  .  .  Oi' course  (General  Kirs.-inof!* 
did  not  hek:)ng  to  the  numl>er  .  .  .  ."" 

"Well,  drop  him," — interrupted  Ha/aroff".  - 
"  As  I  drove  hither  I  rejoiced  at  thy  hiich  groxr: 
it  has  spread  splendidly." 

Vasih^  Ivanitch  grew  animated.  —  '^Vnd  see 
what  a  nice  little  garden  I  have  now!  I  pkuited 
every  tree  mvself.  There  are  fruits  in  it  and  l)er- 
ries,  and  all  sorts  of  medicinal  herhs.  lU-  as  art- 
ful as  you  may,  young  gentlemen,  neverthek'ss 
old  Paracelsus  uttered  the  sacred  truth:  ///  Iicrhis. 
verbis  et  lapidihus.  .  .  For  I,  as  tliou  knowest. 
liave  given  up  practice  and  am  ohhged  to  recall 
my  youth  a  couple  of  times  a  week.  People  eoiiie 
for  advice, — one  cannot  tui-n  them  out  neck  and 
cfop.  It  sometimes  hapi)ens  that  poor  j)eo|)le 
come  for  aid.  And  there  are  no  doctors  ;it  nil 
liere.  One  of  the  neighhoui's,  just  fancy,  a  retired 
major,  also  makes  cures.  I  ask  ahout  him:  has 
lie  studied  medicine:'  T  am  told:  no.  he  has  not 
studied;  he  does  it  mainly  from  |)liilanthr()pie 
motives.  .  .  .  Ha,  ha,  i'rom  philanthropic  mo- 
tives! ITev?  What  do  vou  think  of  tiiat  r  Ila. 
lia!  Ha,  ha!  " 

203 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREX 

"  Fedka!  fill  my  pipe!  "  said  BazarofF  sharply. 

"  And  sometimes  another  doetor  here  comes  to 
the  patient,"  — went  on  Vasily  Ivaniteh,  with  a 
sort  of  desperation,  —  "  but  the  patient  has  alread}' 
departed  ad  patrcs;  and  his  servant  does  not  ad- 
mit the  doetor;  he  savs: '  You  're  not  needed  now.' 

'  m.' 

The  doctor  has  not  expected  that;  he  gets  con- 
fused, and  asks :  '  Did  your  master  hiccough  be- 
fore his  death? '— '  He  aid,  sir.'  —  '  And  did  he  hic- 
cough a  great  deal? '— '  Yes.'—'  All,  wefi,  that 's 
good,' — and  right  about  face  back.    Ha,  ha,  ha!  " 

The  old  man  was  the  onh'  one  who  laughed; 
Arkady  indicated  a  smile  on  his  face.  Bazaroff 
merely  stretched  himself.  The  conversation  was 
prolonged  after  this  fashion  for  about  an  hour; 
Arkady  managed  to  get  away  to  his  room,  which 
proved  to  be  the  anteroom  of  the  bath,  but  very 
comfortable  and  clean.  At  last  Taniusha  entered 
and  annoimced  that  dinner  was  ready. 

Vasilv  Ivaniteh  was  the  first  to  rise.  —  "  Come, 
gentlemen!  Be  so  generous  as  to  forgive  me, 
if  you  have  been  bored.  Perhaps  my  housewife 
will  satisfy  you  better  than  I  have  done." 

The  dinner,  although  hastily  prepared,  turned 
out  to  be  very  good,  even  al)uii(lant:  only  the  wine 
was  ratlier  bad:  the  almost  l)lack  sherry,  pur- 
chased by  Timofeitch  in  the  town  from  a  mer- 
cliant  of  his  acquaintance,  had  a  flavour  which  was 
not  precisely  that  of  brass,  nor  yet  of  resin;  and 
the  flies  too  were  a  nuisance.    ^Vt  ordinarj'  times 

204 


FATHERS  AND  CITILDltKX 

the  boy  house-serf  drove  them  oif  willi  a  hi^-  jri-ccri 
bough;  but  on  this  oecasion  Vasi'ly  Ivanitcli  had 
sent  him  away  for  fear  of  eriticism  on  the  part  of 
the  younger   generation.     iVrina    \'hisie\?ia   had 
succeeded  in  arraying  lierself ;  she  had  domud  ;i 
tall  cap  with  silken  ribbons,  and  a  hhie  sliawl  witli 
a  flowered  pattern.     Slie  fell  to  wee])iiig  again  as 
soon  as  she  caught  sight  of  her  Kniuslia,  l)ut  Ik  i- 
hus})and  was  not  obliged  to  exhort  her:  she  wij)e(l 
her  tears  away  as  pronij)tly  as  possi])le,  lest  she 
sliould  spoil  her  shawl.     The  young  men  alone 
ate:  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  house  had 
dined  long  before.     Fedka  waited  on  lliein,  evi- 
dently oppressed  by  his  unwonted  boots,  and  he 
was  assisted  by  a  woman  with  a  maseuhFie  face, 
who  was  also  blind  of  one  eve,  Anfisushka  hv 
name,  who  discharged  the  duties  of,  liousekeeper. 
poultry-woman  and  laundress.     A^asfly   I\;iiiitch 
paced  u])  and  down  the  room  dvn-ing  the  wliole 
duration  of  the  dinner,  and  with  a  tlioi-oughly 
happy  and  even  blissful  as])ect  talked  ahout  tlic 
grave  apprehensions  with  which  the  ])oli(y  of  Na- 
poleon inspired  him  and  the  complications  of  the 
Itahan  question.     Arina  Vlasievna  did  not   \)vv- 
ceive  Arkady,  did  not  urge  him  to  eat :  with  hii-  fist 
■  propping  up  her  round  face,  to  which  Iki-  puffy, 
cherry-coloured  lips  and  the  nioles  on  her  chieks 
and  above  her  eyebrows  imi)arte(l  a   very  good- 
natured  ex])ression.  she  never  took  her  eyes  of! 
her  son.  and  sighed  constantly:  slie  was  dying 

205 


FATHEKS  AND  CIIILDKEX 

to  find  out  for  how  long  a  time  he  had  come,  but 
she  was  afraid  to  ask  him.  "  Well,  he  will  sav  — 
'  For  a  couple  of  days,'  "  she  thought,  and  her 
heart  died  within  her.  After  the  roast,  Vasilv 
lA'anitch  disappeared  for  a  moment  and  returned 
with  an  uncorked  half  bottle  of  champagne. 
"  Here," — he  exclaimed,  —  "  although  we  do  live 
in  the  wilds,  still,  on  festive  occasions,  we  have 
something  where^^'ith  to  cheer  ourselves!"  He 
poured  out  three  glasses  and  a  wine-glass  full 
proposed  the  health  "  of  our  inestimable  visitors," 
and  having  tossed  off  his  glass  at  once  in  militar\" 
fashion,  he  made  Arina  Vlasievna  drain  her  wine- 
glass to  the  last  drop.  AVhen  the  preserves  were 
brought  on,  Arkady,  who  could  not  endure  any- 
thing sweet,  nevertheless  considered  it  his  duty  to 
taste  foiu"  different  sorts,  the  more  so  as  Bazaroff 
flatly  declined  them,  and  immediately  lighted  a 
cigar.  Then  tea  made  its  appearance  on  the 
scene,  accompanied  by  cream,  butter  and  crack- 
nels; then  Vasily  Ivanitch  led  them  all  into  the 
garden,  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  evening.  As 
they  passed  a  bench  he  whispered  to  Arkady, — 
"  On  this  spot  I  love  to  ])hilosophise,  as  I  gaze 
at  the  sunset:  that  is  befitting  a  hermit.  And 
furtlier  on,  yonder,  I  have  planted  several  of  the 
trees  beloved  by  Horace." 

"  A\'^hat  sort  of  trees?  " — asked  Bazaroff,  wlio 
was  listening. 

"  W\\\  ....  acacias,  of  course." 

206 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDHKX 

]5a'/{ii'ofF  begun  to  yawn. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  time  for  tlie  travelKrs  to  he- 
take  themselves  to  the  arms  of  Morplieus,"  re- 
marked Vasil}'  Ivaniteh. 

"  That  is  to  say,  it  is  time  to  go  to  })e(l,"  —  jxit 
in  Bazaroff. — "That  reasoning  is  eorrect.  It  is 
time,  in  fact." 

When  he  bade  liis  mother  good-niglil,  he  kissed 
lier  on  the  brow,  — and  slie  embi-aeed  him  and 
blessed  him  tlirice  with  the  sign  of  tlie  cross 
stealthily  behind  his  back.  \'asily  I\;initch 
escorted  Arkady  to  his  chaml)er  and  wished 
him  "  the  same  sort  of  beneficent  repose  winch 
I  used  to  enjoy  at  your  age."  And,  in  laet. 
Arkady  slept  capitally  in  his  bath  vestil)uk'. 
It  was  redolent  of  mint,  and  two  crickets  vied 
with  each  other  in  chirping  away  soj)orifieally 
behind  the  stove.  Vasi'ly  Ivanitcli.  on  Ka\- 
ing  Arkady,  went  to  his  study,  and  cuiliiig 
himself  up  on  the  couch  at  his  son's  feet,  i)repared 
to  have  a  chat  with  him;  but  l^azjiroff*  iiiimedi- 
atelv  sent  him  awav,  saving  tliat  he  felt  slee|)v; 
])ut  he  did  not  get  to  sleej)  until  morning.  \\'iih 
widely -opened  eyes  he  stared  angrily  into  the 
darkness:  memories  of  his  childhood  had  no  do- 
minion over  him,  and.  moreovei".  he-  had  not  yet 
succeeded  in  detaching  himself  from  his  last  bit- 
ter impressions.  xVrina  Masiexiia  fii-st  prayed  to 
her  heart's  content :  then  she  had  a  long,  long  con- 
ference with  xVnfisushka,  \v1k),  standi?ig  in  front 

207 


FATHERS   AND  CHIT.DREX 

of  her  mistress  as  though  looted  to  the  spot  and 
with  lier  sohtary  eye  riveted  upon  her,  conmiu- 
nicated  to  her  in  a  mysterious  whisper  all  her  ob- 
servations and  conchisions  regarding-  Evgeny 
Yasihevitch.  The  old  lady's  head  A\'as  all  in  a 
whirl  from  joy,  wine,  and  eigar-smoke;  her  hus- 
band tried  to  talk  to  her,  but  gave  it  uj)  in  despair, 
Arina  Vlasievna  was  a  genuine  Russian  gentle- 
woman of  the  petty  nobilit}^  of  days  gone  by ;  she 
ought  to  have  lived  a  couple  of  hundred  years  ear- 
lier, in  the  times  of  ancient  jNIoscow.  She  was  very 
devout  and  sentimental,  she  believed  in  all  sorts 
of  omens,  divinations,  spells,  dreams;  she  believed 
in  holy  simpletons,'  in  house-demons,  in  forest- 
demons,  in  evil  encounters,  in  the  evil  eye,  in  pop- 
ular remedies,  in  salt  prepared  in  a  special  man- 
ner on  Great  Thursday  ~  in  the  speedy  end  of 
the  world;  she  believed  that  if  the  tapers  did  not 
go  out  at  the  Vigil  Service  at  Easter  the  buck- 
wheat would  bear  a  heavy  crop,  and  that  a  mush- 
room will  not  grow  any  more  if  a  human  eye 
descries  it;  she  believed  that  the  devil  is  fond  of 
being  where  there  is  water,  and  tliat  every  Jew 
has  a  bloody  s])ot  on  his  breast;  she  was  afraid  of 
mice,  snakes,  frogs,  sparrows,  leeches,  thunder, 
cold  water,  draughts,  horses,  goats,  red-haired 
people,  and  black  cats,  and  regarded  crickets  and 

1  Half-witted  men  were  formerly  reprarded  in  Russia  as  divinely 
inspired,  almost  in  the  lip^ht  of  prophets.  — Translator. 

-' The  Thursday  before  Good  Friday :  called  Maundy  Thursday  in 
\he  Western  Church.-  'J'ransi.atoh. 

208 


FATHERS   AND  (TIll.DHKX 

dogs  as  unclean  animals;  siic  ate  ncilhcr  veal,  nor 
pigeons/  nor  crabs,  nor  clieese,  nor  asj)aragus,  nor 
artichokes,    nor   watermelons,    hecansc    :i    water- 
melon when  it  is  cut  n-minds  one  of  Ihi'  licid  of 
John  the  Baptist;  and  she  ne\ei-  iiictilioncd  oys- 
ters otherwise  than  with  a  shudder;  she  ss.is  IoimI 
of  eating — and  fasted  strictly;  slu-  slept  ten  hours 
a  day — and  never  went  to  hed  at   ;ill   if  \'asily 
Ivanitcli  had  a  headache;  she  had  never  ixad  a 
single  book,  except  "  Alexis,  or  the  Cottage  in  the 
Forest  ";  she  wrote  one  letter,  at  the  most  two  let- 
ters, a  year;  but  she  was  an  exi)ert  in  dried  and 
preserved  fruits,  although  she  never  put  her  own 
hand  to  anything,  and,  in  general,  was  reluctant 
to  move  from  one  spot.     Arina  Miisievna  was 
very  good-natured,  and,  in  her  own  way.  not  at 
all  stupid.     She  knew  that  tiiere  are  in  the  world 
gentlemen  whose  duty  it  is  to  command,  and  com- 
mon people  whose  duty  it  is  to  obey,  — and  there- 
fore she  did  not  disdain  either  obseciuiousness  or 
lowly  reverences  to  the  earth;  but  she  treated  Ik  r 
inferiors  graciously  and  gentl\-;  she  ne\er  Ut   a 
beggar  pass  without  a  gift,  and  she  ne\ei-  eoii- 
demned  any  one.  although  she  did  occasionally 
indulge  in  gossip.     In  her  youth  she  had  been 
very  pretty,  had  played  on  th.e  clavichord,  and  had 
spoken  a  little  French;  but  in  the  course  of  wan- 
derings, which  extended  over  many  years,  with  her 

i  The  dove  beiiip  the  svnih<il  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  majority  of 
Russians  will  neither  kill  nor  eat  pi>;eoMS.  ^    I  iiansi  vT.m. 

200 


FATHERS  AXD  CHILDREN 

husband,  wliom  she  had  married  against  lier  will, 
slie  had  deteriorated  and  had  forgotten  her  music 
and  her  French.  She  loved  and  feared  her  son 
unspeakably;  she  allowed  Vasih^  Ivanitch  to  man- 
age her  estate,  — and  never  required  an  accounting 
for  anything:  she  groaned,  waved  the  subject 
away  with  her  handkerchief  and  kept  raising  her 
eyebrows  higher  and  higher,  as  soon  as  Vasily 
Ivanitch  began  to  exi)lain  impending  reforms 
and  his  plans.  She  was  given  to  forebodings,  was 
constantly  expecting  some  great  catastrophe,  and 
fell  to  Aveeping  the  moment  she  called  to  mind 
anything  mournful.  .  .  Such  women  are  now  be- 
coming extinct.  God  knows  whether  we  ought 
to  rejoice  at  it! 


210 


XXI 

When  he  got  out  of  bed  Arkady  opened  tlie  win- 
dow,—and  the  first  object  wliicli  met  liis  eyes  was 
Vasily  Ivanitch.  Clad  in  a  dressin<r-^()wii  I'loni 
Bukliara,  girt  with  a  handkerehiel',  the  old  man 
was  engaged  in  digging  assiduously  in  his  vege- 
table garden.  lie  caught  sight  oi'  his  young  vis- 
itor, and  leaning  on  his  spade,  he  exclaimed:  —  "  i 
wish  you  Iiealth!  How  have  vou  been  ])leased  to 
sleep?  " 

"  Splendidly,"  answered  Arkady. 

"  And  here  am  I,  as  you  see,  like  some  sort  of 
a  Cincinnatus,  preparing  a  bed  for  late  radislies. 
The  times  are  such— and  glor}^  to  God  foi-  it!  — 
that  everj^  one  is  bound  to  earn  his  living  with  his 
own  hands;  no  hopes  are  to  be  ])laced  on  others: 
one  must  toil  for  himself.  And  it  turns  out  tliat 
Jean-Jacques  Kousseau  was  right.  Half  ;m  hour 
ago,  my  dear  sir,  you  would  have  beheld  me  in  a 
totally  different  attitude.  There  was  a  peasant- 
woman  who  com])lained  of  ^■)icth'a,  —  Uvd\  \  what 
they  call   it,   but   we   call    it    dysentery,- -and    I 

how  shall  I  best  express  it   .   .    I  poured 

opium  into  her;  and  I  have  ])ulle(l  a  tootli  Cor  an- 
other woman.  I  proposed  to  the  latter  that  sbc 
should  take  ether,  .  .  .  but  she  would  not  c<insent. 

211 


FATHERS   AND  C  TTTT.DREN 

I  do  all  this  gratis— r/z  amateur,  but  that  is  no 
marvel;  for  I  am  a  plebeian,  homo  novus — I  'm 
not  a  member  of  the  ancient  nobility,  like  my 
spouse.  .  .  .  But  will  not  you  come  hither  into 
the  shade  to  get  a  breath  of  the  morning  fresh- 
ness before  tea?  " 

Arkady  went  out  and  joined  him. 

"Welcome,  once  more!  "—said  Vasily  Iva- 
nitch,  putting  his  hand,  in  military  fashion,  to  the 
greasy  skull-cap  which  covered  his  head.  —  "  You 
are  accustomed  to  luxury,  I  know,  to  pleasures, 
but  even  the  great  ones  of  this  world  do  not  dis- 
dain to  spend  a  short  time  under  the  roof  of  the 
cottage." 

"  Good  gracious!  "  —  shouted  Arkady,  —  "  what 
do  you  mean  by  calling  me  one  of  the  great  ones 
of  this  world?  And  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
luxury." 

"  Pardon  me,  pardon  me,"— retorted  Vasily 
Ivanitch  with  a  polite  grin.  —  "  Although  I  am 
now  relegated  to  the  archives,  I  also  have  rubbed 
elbows  with  societj^- 1  know  the  bird  by  its  flight. 
I  am  also  a  psychologist,  in  my  own  way,  and  a 
physiognomist.  Had  I  not  that  gift,  I  venture 
to  say  that  I  would  have  perislied  long  ago ;  such 
a  small  man  as  myself  would  have  stood  no  chance 
at  all.  I  will  tell  you,  without  compliments:  the 
friendshi])  which  I  observe  between  you  and  my 
son  affords  me  great  joy.  I  have  already  seen 
him :  lie,  according  to  his  habit,  of  which  you  are 

212 


FATIIEKS    AM)    CIIILDKI'A 

probably  aware,  got  up  very  early,  and  scoured 
the  neighbourhood.  Permit  me  to  iiKiuire.  1 1  a\  < 
vou  known  my  Evgeny  long?  " 

''  Since  this  last  winter/' 

"Exactly  so,  sir.     iVnd  i)ermit  nic  to  ask  yon 
another  question, — but  will  not  you  sit  down' 
Permit  me  to  ask  you,  as  a  father,  in  all   I'lauk- 
ness:  What  opinion  do  you  hold  of  ni\   l^vgeiiy  (  " 

"  Your  son  is  one  of  tlie  most  remarkable  men 
whom  1  have  ever  met,"  — remarked  iVrkadv  with 
animation. 

Yasily  Ivanitch's  ej^es  suddenly  dilated,  and  a 
faint  flush  overspread  his  cheeks.  The  spade  fell 
from  his  hands. 

"  So  you  assume  .  ."  he  began 

"I  am  convinced,"  — interposed  Arkady,  - 
"  that  a  great  future  awaits  your  son,  that  he  ^^  ill 
o-lorify  your  name.  I  have  been  convinced  of  that 
since  the  very  first  time  I  met  him." 

"How  .  .  .  how  was  that?"  — Vasily  Iviinitch 
barely  articulated.  A  rapturous  smile  i)arted  his 
broad  lips  and  (hd  not  again  (lei)art  from  them. 

"  You  want  to  know  how  we  met?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  and  in  general  .   .  •  ." 

Arkady  began  to  narrate  and  talk  about  Ha/ii- 
rofF  with  even  more  fervour,  uith  e\cn  more  en- 
thusiasm, than  on  the  evening  when  he  had  danced 
the  mazurka  with  ^Madame  Odint/ofl". 

Yasily  Ivanitch  listened  to  him  -listened,  blew 
his  nose,  dandled  his  handkerchief  in  l><>th  hands. 

213 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILUKEX 

coughed,  ruffled  up  his  Iiair— and,  at  last,  could 
contain  himself  no  longer:  he  bent  toward  Ar- 
kady and  kissed  him  on  the  shoulder.'— "  You 
have  made  me  perfectly  happy,"— he  said,  with- 
out ceasing  to  smile.  —  "  I  am  bound  to  tell  j^ou 
that  I  .  .  .  adore  my  son ;  I  need  say  nothing  as 
to  my  old  woman:  she  's  his  mother— everybody 
knows  what  that  means!— but  I  dare  not  express 
my  feelings  in  his  ])resence,  because  he  does  not 
like  that.  He  is  averse  to  all  effusions ;  many  per- 
sons even  condemn  him  for  that  firmness  of  char- 
acter, and  discern  in  it  a  sign  of  pride,  or  absence 
of  feeling:  but  people  like  him  must  not  be  mea- 
sured with  the  ordinary  yard-stick,  is  n't  that  so? 
Take  this,  for  example:  any  other  man  in  his 
place  would  have  dra^vn  and  drawn  on  his  par- 
ents; but  he,  will  you  believe  it?  has  never  taken 
an  extra  kopek  from  us  in  his  life,  as  God  is  my 
witness!  " 

"  He  is  an  unselfish,  honourable  man," — re- 
marked Arkad^^ 

"  Precisely  so,  unselfish.  And  I  not  only  adore 
him,  Arkc4dy  Xikolaitch,  I  am  proud  of  him, 
and  my  whole  pride  consists  in  this,  that  in  course 
of  time  these  words  will  stand  in  his  biography: 
'  he  was  the  son  of  a  simjile  staff -doctor,  who, 
nevertheless,  understood  how  to  divine  him  early 
in  life,  and  spared  no  expense  on  his  educa- 
tion.  .  .'  "     The  old  man's  voice  broke. 

*  As  serfs  were  wont  to  do  to  their  masters.  — Tuansi.atoh. 

2U 


FATIIKKS    AM)    CIIILDKKN 

Arkady  scjuee/ecl  his  luiiid. 

"What  tliiiik  you,"  —  asked  N'asily  hatiiU'li. 
after  a  brief  silence,  — "  assuredly  he-  will  iiol 
attain  in  the  medical  career  that  fame  wliidi  yon 
prophesy  for  him  if  " 

"  Of  course  not  in  llie  medical  career,  mUIiou^^Ii 
in  that  respect  also  he  will  he  one  of  tiie  leading 
lights." 

"  In  what  career  then,  Arkjidy  Xikolaitehi'  " 

"  That  is  difficult  to  say  at  present,  hut  lie  will 
become  famous." 

"  He  will  become  famous!  "—repeated  the  old 
man,  and  became  immersed  in  meditation. 

"  Arina  Vlasievna  has  ordered  me  to  ask  you 
to  drink  tea,"  — said  Anfisusiika  as  she  |)assed 
them  with  a  huge  dish  of  ripe  rasi)berries. 

Vasily  Ivanitcli  started  —  "  And  will  there  be 
chilled  cream  for  the  raspberries^  " 

"  There  will,  sir." 

"  See  to  it  that  it  is  cold !  Do  not  stand  on  cere- 
mony, Arkady  Nikolaitch,  — take  a  lot.  1  won- 
der why  Evgeny  does  not  come." 

"  Here  I  am,"— rang  out  Baziiroff's  voice  from 
Arkady's  room. 

Vasily  Ivanitch  wheeled  hastily  round.  "  Aha  ! 
thou  hast  wished  to  visit  tliy  friend,  hut  thou  weit 
belated,  amice,  and  he  and  1  have  already  had  a 
Ion"-  conversation.  Now  we  must  go  and  drink 
tea:  thy  mother  sunmions  us.  Hy  the  way.  I  must 
have  a  talk  with  thee." 

215 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  What  about  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  wretched  peasant  here;  he  is  suf- 
fering  from  icterus.  ..." 

"  In  other  words,  from  jaundice?  " 

"  Yes,  from  clironic  and  very  obstinate  icterus. 
I  have  prescribed  for  him  centaury,  and  Saint 
John's  wort,  I  have  made  him  eat  carrots,  I  have 
administered  soda;  but  all  these  are  palliatives; 
something  more  decisive  is  necessary.  Although 
thou  jeerest  at  medicine,  yet  I  am  persuaded  that 
thou  canst  give  me  practical  advice.  But  we  will 
talk  of  that  later.  And  now  let  us  go  and  drink 
tea." 

Vasily  Ivanitch  sprang  up  briskly  from  the 
bench  and  began  to  sing  from  Robert  le  Diahlc : 

"  We  Ml  make  a  law,  a  law,  a  law  unto  ourselves 
In  jov  .   .   .  in  joy  .  .   .  in  jovfulness  to  dwell !  *" 

"What  remarkable  vitality!"  —  said  BazarofF 
and  he  withdrew  from  the  window. 

Midday  arrived.  The  sun  blazed  from  behind 
a  thin  veil  of  continuous,  whitish  clouds.  Silence 
reigned:  only  the  cocks  crowed  provokingly  at 
each  other  in  the  village,  arousing  in  every  one 
who  heard  them  a  strange  sensation  of  drowsiness 
and  weariness;  and  somewhere  aloft  in  the  crests 
of  the  trees  resounded  like  a  wailing  call  the  un- 
intermitting  squeak  of  a  young  hawk.  Arkady 
:in(l  Bazjiroff  were  lying  in  the  shade  of  a  small 
hay-stack,  having   placed   beneath   themselves   a 

216 


PWTIIKliS   AM)  C'lIILDUKX 

couple  of  armfiils  of  the  nistlinf»ly-(lrv,  hut  still 
green  and  fragrant  grass. 

"  Yonder  aspen-tree," — hcgan  BazarofT,  "  re- 
minds me  of  my  childhood;  it  grows  on  tlu-  hriiik 
of  a  pit,  the  rehc  of  a  hrick-slied,  and  ;il  that  time 
I  was  convinced  tliat  that  |)it  and  the  aspen  ])()s- 
sessed  a  pecuhar  talisman:  I  iiimm-  \'v\\  I)()i<(1 
wlien  I  was  hy  tlieir  side.  I  did  not  understand 
then  that  I  was  not  hored,  ])eeause  I  was  a  child. 
Well,  now  I  am  growii  uj),  and  the  talisman  does 
not  work." 

"  How  much  time  hast  thou  spent  liere  alto- 
gether? "  —  asked  Arkady. 

"  Tw^o  years  in  succession ;  then  we  used  to  come 
here  occasionally.  We  led  a  wandering  life:  we 
used  to  haunt  the  towns  chiefly." 

"  And  has  this  house  been  standing  long?  " 

"  Yes.  My  grandfatlier  built  it,  my  mother's 
father." 

"  Who  was  he— thy  grandfather?  " 

"The  deuce  know^s.  Some  Second-Majoi-  or 
other.  He  served  under  Suvoroff,  and  was  for- 
ever telhng  about  crossing  tlie  Al])s.     Tie  lied,  T 

suppose." 

"  That 's  why  there  is  a  portrait  of  Suvoroff 
hanging  in  your  drawing-room.  1  like  such  little 
houses  as  yours,  old  and  warm:  and  there  is  a  ecr- 
tain  peculiar  odour  in  them." 

"  It  smacks  of  olive  oil  from  the  shrine-lamp, 
and  sweet  clover,"— articulated  Bazaroft'  with  m 

217 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

vauii.  — "  But  what  a  lot  of  flies  there  are  in  these 

ft 

charming  little  houses phew!" 

"  Tell  me,"  — began  Arkady,  after  a  brief 
silence,  —  "  wert  thou  oppressed  in  thy  child- 
hood^ " 

"  Thou  seest  what  my  parents  are  like.— 
They  "re  not  strict  folks." 

"  Dost  thou  love  them,  Evgeny?  "  * 

"Yes,  Arkady!" 

"They  love  thee  so!" 

BazarofF  said  nothing  for  a  while.— "  Dost 
thou  know  what  I  am  thinking  about?  " — he  said 
at  last,  throwing  his  hands  behind  his  head. 

"No.    What  is  it?" 

"  I  am  thinking:  my  parents  have  a  jolly  good 
time  in  the  world !  ^ly  father,  at  the  age  of  sixty, 
fusses  about,  talks  about  '  palliative  '  remedies, 
doctors  people,  is  generous  to  his  peasants,  — in  a 
word,  he  leads  a  life  of  dissipation;  and  my 
mother  finds  life  pleasant  also:  her  day  is  so 
crammed  with  all  sorts  of  occupations,  with  akhs ! 
and  okhs!  that  she  has  no  time  to  bethink  herself; 
while  I " 

"While  thou?" 

"  While  I  think:  here  I  lie  now  under  a  hay- 
stack ....  the  space  I  occupy  is  small,  so  tiny 
in  com])arison  with  the  surrounding  expanse, 
where  I  am  not,  and  where  no  one  cares  about  me; 
and  the  ]wrtion  of  time  which  I  shall  manage  to 
live  through  is  so  insignificant,  in  comparison  with 

218 


FATHERS  AND  ClllLDKEN 

eternity,  where  1  have  not  been  and  shall  not  l)e. 
.  .  .  But  in  this  atom,  this  mathematical  |K)iMt, 
the  blood  is  circulating,  the  brain  is  woiking,  it 
wants  something  also.  .  .  .  \Vhat  a  monstrosity! 
What  nonsense!  " 

"  Permit  me  to  remark  that  what  thou  art  say- 
ing is  applicable  to  all  men  in  general.   .   .   ." 

"  Thou  art  right,"  — chimed  in  Jia/arofi'.— 
"  AVhat  I  wanted  to  say  is  that  thev,  that  is,  ni\' 
parents,  are  occupied,  and  do  not  bother  about 
their  own  insignificance;  it  does  not  stink  in  tluir 
nostrils  .  .  .  while  I  .  .  .  feel  simply  bored  and 
wrathful." 

"  Wrathful?    Why  wrathful?  " 

"Why?  What  dost  thou  mean  l)y  'why'? 
Can  it  be  that  thou  hast  forgotten?" 

"  I  remember  everything,  but  nevertheless  I  do 
not  acknowledge  that  thou  hast  a  right  to  be 
angiy.    Thou  art  unhap]jy,  I  admit,  but  .  .  .  ." 

"  Eh!  I  perceive  that  thou,  Arkady  Xikolae- 
vitch,  understandest  love  like  all  the  most  modern 
young  men:  cheep,  cheep,  cheep,  eliickeiu  l)ut  ,just 
as  soon  as  the  chicken  begins  to  approach,  make 
oiF  as  fast  as  you  can!— 1  am  not  like  that.  But 
enough  on  that  score.  It  is  shameful  to  talk  about 
what  cannot  be  hel])ed."  lie  turned  over  on  his 
side.— "Aha!  yonder  is  a  bold  ant  dragging  a 
half-dead  fly.  Drag  it  along,  brothei-,  drag  it 
along!  Don't  mind  its  resistance,  take  ad\  aiitagc 
of  the  fact  that  thou,  in  thy  (juality  of  an  aniiiia!. 

219 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREX 

Imst  a  right  not  to  recognise  the  feehng  of  suffer- 
ing, which  is  quite  the  reverse  of  the  case  with  one 
of  us,  who  is  '  self-hroken  '  !  " 

"  That  is  not  the  thing  for  thee  to  say,  Evgeny ! 
—  When  hast  thou  broken  thyself?  " 

Bazaroff  raised  his  head.  —  "  That  's  the  only 
thing  I  am  proud  of.  I  have  not  broken  myself, 
and  a  woman  shall  not  break  me.  Amen !  Done 
with!  Thou  wilt  never  hear  another  word  about 
it  from  me." 

The  two  friends  lay  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"  Yes,"— began  Bazaroff,  —  "  man  is  a  strange 
being.  When  one  gazes  thus  from  one  side,  and 
from  a  distance,  at  life  in  the  wilds,  such  as  our 
'  fathers  '  lead,  it  seems  to  him :  What  could  be 
better?  Eat,  drink,  and  know  that  thou  art  act- 
ing in  the  most  regular,  most  sensible  manner. 
But  no;  melancholy  seizes  hold  upon  one.  One 
wants  to  consort  with  people,  even  if  it  be  to  re- 
vile them,  but  to  consort  with  them." 

"  One  must  arrange  life  in  such  a  way  that 
everA'^  moment  in  it  will  be  significant,"  —  said  Ar- 
kady thoughtfully. 

"  Who  says  so!  The  significant,  although  it  is 
sometimes  false,  is  sweet,  but  it  is  also  possible  to 
reconcile  one's  self  to  the  insignificant  ....  but 
there  's  the  empty  tittle-tattle,  the  empty  tittle- 
tattle — that 's  the  trouble." 

"  Tittle-tattle  does  not  exist  for  a  man,  if  only 
he  refuse  to  recognise  it." 

220 


lA'lITKKS    AM)    C'TTILDI^KX 

"  H'm  .  .  .  tlioii  liasi  iitt(|-c(l  \]\v  opposite  cdiii' 
monplacc." 

"What?— AVhat  (lost  thou  call  l.y  lli.il  nam,'"' 

"  Why,  this:  to  say,  for  example-,  that  civilisa- 
tion is  useful, — that  is  a  C()iinii()iij)lacT-.  hut  to  sa\- 
that  civilisation  is  harnil'iil  is  tlic  ojjjxjsitc  com- 
monplace. It  appeal's  to  l)c  more  elegant,  hut.  in 
reality,  it  is  identical." 

"  But  where  is  the  truth,  on  wliich  side?  " 
Where?    I    will    answer    tliec    like    Kcho: 
Where?'" 

Thou    art    in    a    melancholy    mood    to-day, 
Evgeny." 

"  Really?  The  sun  must  have  stewed  me,  and 
one  should  not  eat  so  many  raspherries." 

"  In  that  case,  it  would  not  he  a  had  idea  to  ha\  c 
a  nap," — remarked  Arkady. 

"  All  right;  only  don't  look  at  me:  every  mail 
has  a  stupid  face  when  he  is  asleep." 

"  But  is  n't  it  a  matter  of  indifference  to  thee 
what  people  think  of  thee?  " 

"  T  don't  know  what  to  say  to  thee.  /\  genuine 
man  ought  not  to  worry  ahout  that:  a  gen- 
uine man  is  the  one  for  whom  it  is  not  worth 
while  to  think,  hut  whom  one  mu.st  ohey  or 
hate." 

"  It  is  strange!  I  do  ?iot  hate  any  one,"  — said 
Arkady,  after  reflection. 

"  And  I  hate  so  many.  Tliou  art  a  tender  soul, 
a  sluffsfish  man,  whv  shouldst  thou  hate!-  Thon 

221 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREX 

art   timid,    thou    hast   little   confidence   in   thv^ 
self.  .  .  ." 

"And  thou,"— interrupted  Arkady,  — "  hast 
thou  confidence  in  thyself?  Hast  thou  a  lofty 
opinion  of  thyself?  " 

BazarofF  remained  silent  for  a  while.  —  "  When 
i  meet  a  man  ^^  ho  will  not  sing  small  before  me," 
— he  said  witli  breaks  and  pauses, — "  then  I  will 
alter  my  opinion  of  myself. — Hate!  Why,  here, 
for  example,  thou  didst  say  to-day,  as  we  passed 
the  cottage  of  our  overseer,  Philip, — it  is  so  fine 
and  white, — here  thou  didst  say, — that  Russia 
would  attain  to  perfection  when  the  last  peasant 
should  have  such  a  dwelling,  and  every  one  of  us 
ought  to  promote  it.  .  .  .  But  I  hated  that  last 
peasant,  Philip  or  Sidor,  for  whom  I  am  to  toil 
and  moil,  and  who  will  not  even  say  '  thanks  '  to 
me  ....  and  what  do  I  want  with  his  thanks, 
anyway?  Well,  he  will  \i\e  in  a  white  cottage, 
but  burdocks  will  be  growing  out  of  me.  —  Well, 
and  what  comes  next?  " 

"  Enough,  Evgeny  .  .  .  when  one  listens  to 
thee  to-day,  one  involuntarily  agrees  with  those 
who  accuse  us  of  a  lack  of  principles." 

"  Thou  art  talking  like  thy  uncle.  In  general, 
there  are  no  principles— hast  thou  not  discovered 
that  yet!  but  there  are  sensations.  Everything 
depends  on  them." 

"  How  so?  " 

"  ^\Tiy,  because. —Take  me;  for  example:     I 

222 


FATIIKKS  AM)  CIIILDKKX 

liold  to  the  negative  teiulency,  — by  virtue  of  sen- 
sation. It  is  agTeeable  to  me  to  deny  my  l)iain  is 
construeted  in  that  way  —  and  tliat  "s  cnouglil 
Why  do  I  hke  eheniistry !"  W'liy  dosl  thou  Hkr 
apples? — also  by  virtue  of  tlie  sensation.  iVll  that 
is  identieal.  Deeper  than  that,  uww  will  nexci- 
penetrate.  Not  every  one  will  tell  thee  that,  and  1 
shall  not  tell  thee  tliat  again." 

"What?  and  is  honour  also  a  sensation^" 
"  I  should  say  so!  " 

"  Evgeny!  "—began  Arkady  in  a  sad  voiee. 
"Ah?  What?  Is  n't  it  to  thy  taste?  "-inter- 
rupted BazarofF.  — "  No,  brother!  11'  thou  hast 
made  up  thy  mind  to  mow  down  everything  la\- 
thyself  by  the  heels  also!  ....  But  we  have  i)lii- 
losophised  enough.  '  Nature  ineites  to  the  silenee 
of  slumber,'  says  Pushkin." 

"  He  never  said  anything  of  the  soit,"  — said 
Arkady. 

"  Well,  if  he  did  n't  say  it,  he  might  and  should 
have  said  it  in  his  quality  of  a  poet.    By  thr  \\  a\ . 
he  must  have  been  in  the  military  serviee." 
"  Pushkin  never  was  a  military  man.  ' 
"  Upon  my  word,  he  shows  it  on  every  pagf : 
'To    battle,     to    battle!     For     the     lionour     of 
Russia! 

"  What  fables  tlit)u  dost  invent !     Why,  that  is 

downriglit  ealumny." 

"  Calumny?    Mueh  1  eare  about  that  1     1  Ir  1ms 
undertaken  to  scare  me  with  a  word!     W  liatevrr 

223 


FATHERS  AXD  CIIILDREX 

calumny  you  impute  to  a  man  he  really  deserves 
something  twenty  times  worse." 

"  We  'd  better  go  to  sleep,"  —  said  Arkady 
with  vexation. 

"  With  the  greatest  ])leasure,"  —  replied  Baza- 
rofF.  But  neither  of  them  got  to  sleep.  A  cer- 
tain almost  hostile  feeling  had  seized  possession  of 
the  hearts  of  both  yoimg  men.  Five  minutes  later 
they  opened  their  e3^es  and  exchanged  a  glance 
in  silence. 

"  Look,"  — said  Arkady  at  last,  —  "  a  drv 
maple-leaf  has  broken  loose  and  falls  to  the 
ground;  its  movement  is  exactly  like  that  of  a 
butterfly.  Isn't  it  strange?  The  most  melan- 
choly and  dead  resembles  the  most  merry  and 
lively." 

"Oh,  mv  friend,  Arkady  Xikolaitch!"  — 
cried  Bazaroff, — "  I  make  one  request  of  thee: 
don't  use  fine  language." 

"  I  talk  as  I  can.  .  .  ^Vnd  this  is  despotism,  in 
short.  An  idea  has  come  into  my  head:  why  not 
utter  it?" 

"  Precisely ;  but  \\\\\  should  not  I  utter  my 
thought  also?  I  think  that  to  use  fine  language 
is  improper." 

"  What  is  proper  then?    To  swear?  " 

"  Eh,  eh !  But  I  perceive  that  thou  really  art 
bent  u])on  following  in  the  footste])s  of  thy  uncle. 
How  that  idiot  would  rejoice  if  he  could  hear 
thee!" 

224 


FATIIKKS   AM)  C'lIlLDUKX 

"What  was  tliat  tliou  didst  call  Pavel  IVtn')- 
vitch?  " 

"  I  called  him  wliat  lie  deserves  — an  idiot." 

"But  this  is  unbearahle!"  exclaimed  Arkjidy. 

"  Aha!  the  sentiment  of  consannuinuity  has 
spoken,"  — remarked  Hazarof!"  traiKjuilly.  '1 
have  noticed  that  it  stands  its  around  \cry  j)ei- 
sistently  in  people.  A  man  is  ready  to  i-eject 
everything,  he  will  part  with  every  jirejudice;  but 
to  admit  that  his  brother,  who  steals  other  people's 
handkerchiefs  is  a  thief— is  beyond  his  strenijfth. 
Yes,  and  in  fact:  m//  brother,  inine  is  not  a  genius 
.  .  .  is  that  possible?" 

"  What  spoke  in  me  was  the  sim[)le  sentiment 
of  justice,  and  not  that  of  consanguinuity  at  all," 
—  retorted  Arkady  vehemently.  — "  lint  since 
thou  hast  not  that  sensation,  thou  canst  not  .judge 
of  it." 

"  In  other  words,  Arkady  Kirsanoflf  is  too 
lofty  for  my  comprehension;  I  bow  my  head  and 
hold  my  tongue." 

"Please  stop,  Evgeny;  we  shall  end  by  (luai- 
relling." 

"  Akh,  Arkady!  do  me  that  favour:  kt  us  liavr 
a  good  quarrel  for  once— to  the  point  of  peeling 
off  our  coats  to  extermination." 

"  Well,  if  w^e  go  on  like  this,  probably  we  .shall 

wind  up  by  .  .  .  ." 

By    fighting?  "  — interpolated     Ha/a  roll'.- 
What  of  that?    Here  on  the  hav.  in  such  idyllic 

225 


fathp:us  and  children 

.suiToundings,  far  from  the  world  and  the  gaze  of 
men — it  does  n't  matter.  But  thou  wilt  not  get 
the  better  of  me.  I  shall  instantly  elutch  thee  by 
the  throat " 

Baziiroff  spread  wide  his  long,  tough  fin- 
gers. .  .  Arkady  turned  over  and  made  ready,  as 
though  in  jest,  to  offer  resistance.  .  .  .  But  his 
friend's  face  struck  liim  as  so  malevolent,  there 
seemed  to  him  to  be  something  so  far  from  a  jest 
in  the  wry  smile  on  his  lips,  in  his  blazing  eyes, — 
that  he  felt  an  involuntary  timidity.  .  .  . 

"  Ah!  so  this  is  where  you  've  got  to!  " — rang 
out  Vasily  Ivanitch's  voice  at  that  moment,  and 
the  old  regimental  staff -surgeon  stood  before  the 
young  men,  clad  in  a  home-made  linen  pea-jacket 
and  with  a  straw  hat,  also  of  domestic  manufac- 
ture, on  his  head.  — "  I  have  been  hiuiting  and 
hunting  for  you.  .  .  But  you  have  chosen  a  cap- 
ital place  and  are  devoting  yoiu'selves  to  a  very 
fine  occupation.  Lying  on  the  '  earth  '  to  gaze 
at  '  heaven.'  .  .  Do  you  know,  there  is  a  certain 
special  significance  in  that!  " 

"  I  gaze  at  heaven  only  when  I  want  to  sneeze," 
— growled  BazarofF,  and,  turning  to  Arkady,  he 
added,  in  an  undertone:  "  It 's  a  pit}-  he  has  dis- 
turbed us." 

"  Come,  enough  of  that," — whispered  iVrkady, 
and  stealthily  ])ressed  his  friend's  hand.  But  no 
friendshi])  can  long  withstand  such  clashes. 

"  I   look  at  you,  my  young  companions," — 

226 


FATllEKS  AND  CII11J)UK\ 

Vasily  Ivanitc'h  was  saying-  in  tlic  iiR'aiitiiiu-,  as 
he  shook  his  head  and  rested  his  ehispi-d  hands  on 
an  artfully  twisted  cane  of  liis  own  inannlac-luic, 
with  the  figure  of  a  Turk  in  place  of  a  knoh. 
"  1  look  and  cannot  suthciently  achnire  you.  I  low 
much  strength  and  the  most  vigorous  youth,  ca- 
pacities, talents,  you  have!  'T  is  simply  .  . 
Castor  and  Pollux!  " 

"  See  now — he  makes  j)retensions  to  knowing 
mythology!  "  —  remarked  Eazaroff.  "  'V  is  im- 
mediately evident  that  he  was  strong  on  Latin  in 
his  day!  I  think  I  rememher  that  thou  wert  given 
the  silver  medal  for  com])ositi()n  — hey  ?  " 

"The  Dioscuri,  the  Dioscuri!  "  —  repeateil 
Vasily  Ivanitch. 

"  Come,  father,  have  done  with  that,  — don  t  get 
sentimental." 

"  It  is  permissible  once  in  a  way,"  — slanmR  rt d 
the  old  man.  —  "  But  I  have  not  hunted  yon  uj). 
gentlemen,  for  the  purpose  of  ])ayiiig  yon  com- 
pliments, but  with  the  object,  in  tlic  first  })lacc. 
of  informing  you  that  we  are  to  (hue  soon:  and, 
in  the  second  place, — 1  wanted  to  warn  tlicc, 
Evffenv.  .  .  .  Thou  art  a  sensible  man.  thon 
knowest  men  and  thou  knowest  women,  and.  con- 
sequently, thou  wilt  pardon  me.  .  .  .  'IMiy  mother 
wished  to  have  a  prayer-service  celebrated  in  hon- 
our of  thy  arrival.  Don't  imagine  that  I  am  sum- 
moning thee  to  be  present  at  that  |)i-ayer-ser\  ice: 
it  is  already  finished :  but  Father  Alexyei   .  .   .  .' 

227 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  The  pope? " 

"  Well,  yes,  the  priest ;  he  is  going  to  dine 
with  us.  ...  I  had  not  expected  it,  and  even 
advised  against  it  .  .  .  but  somehow  it  turned  out 

that  way  ....  he  did  not  understand  nie 

Moreover,  he  is  a  very  good  and  sagacious 
man." 

"  He  won't  eat  my  portion  at  dinner,  will  he?  " 
— asked  BazarofF. 

Vasily  Ivanitch  laughed—"  Good  gracious, 
what  dost  thou  mean?  " 

"  I  demand  nothing  more.  I  am  ready  to  sit 
down  at  table  with  an}^  sort  of  man." 

Vasily  Ivanitch  adjusted  his  hat.  —  "  I  was 
convinced  in  advance," — he  said,  —  "  that  thou  art 
above  all  prejudices.  As  for  that,  I  am  an  old 
man:  I  have  lived  for  sixtv  vears,  and  I  have 
none."  (Vasily  Ivanitch  did  not  dare  to  con- 
fess that  he  himself  had  desired  to  have  the 
prayer-service.  .  .  .  He  was  no  less  devout  than 
his  wife.)  "And  Father  Alexvei  was  verv 
anxious  to  make  thy  acquaintance.  Thou  wilt 
like  him,  as  thou  wilt  see.  He  is  not  averse  to  a 
game  of  cards  either,  and  even  ....  but  that  is 
Ix^tween  ourselves  ...  he  smokes  a  pipe." 

"  You  don't  say  so?  After  dinner  we  '11  sit 
down  to  wliist  and  I  '11  beat  liim." 

"  Ha — ha — ha,  we  shall  see!  That 's  the  ques- 
tion." 

"  What 's  that?    Art  thou  going  to  recall  the 

228 


FxVTTTKl^S    A\n   CTTTl.DltKX 

2)leiisiires  of  voiitli?  "  — said  Ha/.-iidlV,  with  ixci; 
liar  emphasis. 

Vasily  Iviinitcirs  Iji-on/cd  cliccks  criiiisoind 
with  confusion. 

"  Art  not  thou  ashamed  oi"  thysell',  l^v^eny?  — 
What's  past  is  irdst.  Well,  and  1  am  icady  In 
confess  in  his  presence  that  1  liad  that  j)assi()ii  in 
my  youth  — as  a  matter  of  fact;  and  I  have  })aid 
well  for  it,  too! — But  how  hot  it  is.  Allow  me  to 
sit  down  heside  j'ou.     I  'm  not  in  the  way.  am  1  (  " 

"  Not  in  the  least," — replied  Arkady. 

Vasily  Ivanitch  dropped  down  on  the  liay  with 
a  grunt.  —  "  Your  present  couch,  gentlemen."  he 
hegan,  —  "reminds  me  of  my  military.  hi\ouac 
life,  field  hospitals,  also  somewheiv  close  to  a  hay- 
stack, thank  God  for  that."  —  lie  sighed.  — "  1 
have  gone  through  a  great  deal — a  great  deal.  In 
my  time.  Now,  for  instance,  if  you  will  permit 
me,  I  wall  tell  you  a  curious  episode  of  the  plague 
in  Bessarahia." 

"  For  which  you  received  the  Order  of  St. 
Vladimir?  "— interi)olated  15a'/{ii()f!'.  "  We  know 
about  it— we  know  about  it.  .  .  .  Hy  the  way. 
why  dost  not  thou  wear  it?  " 

"  Why,  I  have  told  thee  that  I  havi-  no  pic.jii- 
dices,"  — stammered  Vasily  Ivjiniteh  (ordy  tin 
day  before  he  had  commanded  that  the  red  rih- 
bon  should  be  ripped  off  his  coat),  and  li<  be- 
gan to  narrate  the  episode  of  the  ])lagnc. 
"Why.    he    has    fallen    asleep/'-   he    suddeidy 

22!) 


FATHEKS    AND    C  HILDHFA 

A\hispered  to  Arkady,  pointing  at  Bazaroft',  and 
he  winked  good-huniouredly.  — "  Evgeny!  get 
up!" — headdedaloud.  —  "  Come  to  dinner.  .  .  ." 
Father  xVlexyei,  a  stout  and  stately  man,  with 
thick,  carefully  brushed  hair,  and  an  embroid- 
ered  belt  over  his  lilac  cassock,  proved  to  be  a  very 
adroit  and  ready-witted  person.  He  hastened  to 
shake  hands  with  .Arkady  and  Bazaroff,  as 
though  he  understood  beforehand  that  they  did 
not  need  his  blessing,^  and  altogether  he  bore  him- 
self without  constraint.  He  neither  lowered  his 
own  dignity,  nor  gave  offence  to  others;  he 
laughed  opportunely  at  seminary  Latin  and  stood 
up  for  his  Bishop;  he  drank  two  glasses  of  wine, 
but  refused  a  third;  he  accepted  a  cigar  from  Ar- 
kady, but  did  not  smoke  it,  saying  that  he  would 
carry  it  home.  The  only  thing  about  him  that 
was  not  thoroughly  agreeable  was  that  he  kept 
slowly  and  cautiously  lifting  his  hand  to  catch  flies 
on  his  face,  and  in  so  doing  he  sometimes  crushed 
them.  He  seated  himself  at  the  card-table  with 
a  moderate  show  of  satisfaction,  and  ended  by 
winning  two  rubles  and  a  half  from  Bazaroff  in 
bills;  in  Arina  Vlasievna's  house  no  one  had  the 
least  conception  of  reckoning  in  silver  money.  .  ." 
As  before,  she  sat  beside  her  son  (she  did  not  play 

^  It  is  customary  for  priests  and  the  higher  ecclesiastics  to  bestow 
their  blessinji:  upon  laymen,  and  have  their  hand  kissed  in  return, 
instead  of  shaking  hands.— Tit ansi.ator. 

^  At  the  epoch  referred  to,  silver  was  considerably  more  valuable 
than  bills.  —  '1'hansi.atoh 

230 


cr 


1  .\'niJ<:Ks  AXij  (  iiiLiJKi:\ 

cards),  as  before  she  propped  her  clieek  on  her 
fist,   and  only  rose   for  the   purpose  of  ^i\iii 
orders  to  serve  some  fresli  viand.     Slu-  w  as  alVaid 
to  caress  Bazaroli',  and  lie  did  not  (.'ncouia^f  lur. 
did  not  cliallenge  lier  to  caresses,  and,  in  addition. 
X'asily  Ivanitcli  had  advised  Ik  r  not  to  '"  l)()th('r 
him  too  much.  — "  Vouug  men   doni    like   it.  ' 
he  had  inculcated  u|)on  her;  (it  is  unnecessary  to 
sav  what  the  dinner  was  hke  that  dav:  'rimofeitch 
had  galloped  off  in  per.son  at  early  dawn  foi-  som( 
special  Tcherkessian  beef;  the  over.seer  iiad  gon< 
in  another  direction  foi-  burbot,  ])erch  and  (  ra\s- 
fish;  for  mushrooms  alone  the  peasant  women  had 
been  paid  forty-two  kopeks  in  cop|)ei-  money)  ; 
but  Arina  Vhisicvna's  eyes,  inunovahly  fastened 
upon  Bazaroff,  expressed  not  alone  devotion  and 
tenderness:  in  them  there  was  visible  also  sadness 
mingled  with  curiosity  and  terror:  there  was  vis- 
ible a  sort  of  submissive  re])roach. 

But  Baztiroff  w^as  in  no  mood  to  (hciplRi-  i)re- 
cisely  what  his  mother's  eyes  ex])re.ssed  :  Ik  laitly 
addressed  her,  and  then  onl\-  \\\[h  a  curt  (|ii(stioii. 
Once  he  asked  her  for  her  hand  "  foi"  inck";  she 
"■entlv  laid  her  soft  little  hand  on  his  hard,  broad 
l)alm. 

Well,"  — she  inquired,  after  waiting  a  wliilf. 
didn't  it  help?" 

"  Things  went  still  worse."     he  re|)lied  witli  a 
:"areless  smile. 

"  They   are   taking   great    risks,"  -  articulated 


FATTTKHS   AM)   (  III1J)1{KX 

I'allicr  ^Mcxyei,  as  lli()ii«j»li  witli  compassion,  and 
stroked  liis  handsome  beard. 

"  Na})oleon's  rnle,  my  good  father,  Xapoleon's 
rule," — interpolated  Vasi'ly  Ivaniteli,  — and  led  an 
ace. 

"  And  it  led  him  to  tlic  ishnid  of  St.  Helena," 
—  remarked  Fatlier  Alexyei,  and  trumped  witli 
tlie  ace. 

"  Wouldst  not  thou  like  some  raspberry  water, 
Fniuslienka?  "  —  asked  Arina  Vlasievna. 

l^azaroff  merely  shrugged  his  slioulders. 

"Xo!"  — he  said  to  Arkady  on  the  following 
day,  —  "  I  'm  going  away  to-morrow.  It 's  tire- 
some; I  want  to  work  and  it  's  impossible  here. 
I  '11  ffo  back  to  the  counti'v  with  thee ;  1  have  left 
all  my  preparations  there.  In  thy  house  at  least 
one  can  lock  himself  up.  But  here  my  father 
keeps  repeating  to  me:  '  my  study  is  at  tlw  ser- 
vice— no  one  will  disturb  thee,'  — and  he  himself 
never  goes  a  step  from  me.  And  somehow,  too, 
I  'm  ashamed  to  lock  him  out.  And  it 's  the  same 
with  my  mother.  I  hear  her  sighing  on  the  otlier 
side  of  the  wall,  but  if  I  go  to  her  I  have  noth- 
ing to  say." 

"  She  is  greatly  afflicted,"— said  Arkady,— 
''  and  so  is  he." 

"  I  '11  retin-n  to  them." 

"When?" 

"  Why,  on  my  way  to  Petersburg." 

"  I  am  particularly  sorry  for  thy  mother." 

232 


FATIIKKS    AND   C  HILDHKX 

"  W^liy  so^  Has  she  1h-cii  titatiii^  tlm  l-i 
berries?  " 

Arkady  dropped  liis  eyes.  " 'I'lioii  diisl  not 
know  tliy  mother,  Kv^-eny.  She  is  not  onlx  an 
excellent  woman,  slie  is  \  ery  elevei',  r(  all\ .  'I'liis 
morning  she  talked  to  me  I'oi-  lialf  an  lionr  so 
])raetiea]ly,  so  interestin<>/' 

"  She  ])roba])ly  dilated  u[)on  me  the  whole 
time?  " 

"  The  conversation  was  not  about  thee  alone." 

"  Possibly;  things  are  more  visibk-  to  thee  as  an 
outsider.  If  a  woman  can  maintain  a  hali'-hour's 
conversation,  that  is  a  good  sign.  Hut  1  'm  going 
away,  nevertheless." 

"  Thou  wilt  not  find  it  easy  to  imparl  that  in- 
formation to  them.  'IMiev  are  both  (hscussing 
what  we  are  to  do  a  fortniglit  iienee." 

"  It  is  not  easy.  The  (le\  il  |)r()mi)le(l  me  t<>- 
dav  to  annov  mv  father:  tlie  other  (hi\  hi-  gave 
orders  that  one  of  his  serfs  wlio  ])ays  iiim  (juit- 
rent  should  be  flogged  — and  he  did  (juite  right: 
yes,  yes,  don't  stare  at  me  in  such  lioiior.  he  did 
<|uite  right,  because  the  man  is  the  most  IVightrnl 
thief  and  drunkai-d;  onl\- my  lather  did  iinl  in  llie 
least  expect  that  I  sliouhl  get  wind  of  tlie  alfau-. 
as  the  expression  is.  He  was  very  mucii  (hseon- 
certed,  and  now  I  must  grieve  him  to  boot.  .  . 
Never  mind!   It  won't  kill  him!  " 

BazarofF  said,  "  Never  mind!  "  but  a  whole  day 
elapsed  before  he  could  bring  himself  lo  inform 

283 


FATHEKS  xVAD  ClilLDREX 

Vasily  Ivjinitcli  of  Iiis  intention.  At  last,  as  he 
was  bidding  him  good-night  in  the  study,  he  said, 
with  a  forced  ya^vn : 

"  Yes.  .  .  1  came  near  forgetting  to  tell  thee. 
.  .  Please  order  our  horses  to  be  sent  on  to  Feodot 
to-morrow  for  the  relay." 

Vasily  Ivanitch  was  astounded.  —  "  Is  ^Ir.  Kir- 
sanoff  going  away  from  us?  " 

"  Yes;  and  I  am  going  with  him." 

Yasily  Ivanitch  whirled  roiuid  where  he  stood. 
—  "Thou  art  going  away?  " 

"  Yes  ...  I  must.  Please  make  arrangements 
about  the  horses." 

"  Yerj^  well  ..."  stammered  the  old  man:  — 
"  for  the  rela^'  .  .  \'erv  good  ....  onh^  ....  onlv 
....  AVhat  does  it  mean?  " 

"  I  must  go  to  liis  house  for  a  short  time.  Then 
I  will  come  back  here." 

"  Yes!  For  a  short  time.  .  .  Ycry  good." — 
Vasily  Ivanitch  pulled  out  his  handkerchief,  and 
as  he  blew  his  nose  he  bent  over  ahiiost  to  the 
floor.  .  "Very  well  .  .  .  all  shall  be  done.  I  was 
thinking  that  thou  wouldst  stay  witli  us  ...  . 
longer.  Tliree  days.  .  .  .  That  .  .  that  .  .  is 
very  little,  after  three  years:  it  is  ver\-  little, 
Kvgeny!  " 

"  But  I  tell  tiiee  I  am  coining  back  soon. 
It  is  indis})ensabk'  tluit  1  sliould  go." 

"  In(lis])cnsablc.  .  .  .  What  then  ^  One  must 
do  one's  duty  first  of  all.  .  .  .   8(j  1  am  to  des- 

234. 


FATIIKIJS   AND  CHILDUKX 

paU'h  the  liorses?  Very  good.  Of  eourse  An'iia 
and  I  did  not  expect  tliis.  She  has  heg-^^i-d  some 
flowers  from  a  neiohbonr;  she  meant  to  cinhilhsh 
tliy  room/'  (A'asily  Iviiniteli  made  no  mention 
of  tlie  fact  that  \-ery  morninii.  as  soon  ;is  it 
was  liglit,  slandini^'  h;ii'(  roolcd  in  liis  sli])|)crs. 
he  had  taken  eonnsel  with  'rimolVitcli.  .-ind 
drawing  forth,  with  ti'emhhng  fingers,  one  l)ank- 
note  after  anotlier,  had  eommissioned  him  to 
make  (hvers  purchases,  liaving  special  relVivnce 
to  victuals  and  to  chu'et,  which,  so  fai"  as  he  had 
been  able  to  observe,  the  young  men  greatly 
liked.)  "The  maifi  thing  is  freedom;-  that  is 
my  rule  .  .  .  one  must  not  imjK'de  .  .  . 
not   .   .   . 

lie  suddenly  relapsed  into  silence  and  went  to- 
ward the  door. 

"  We  shall  see  each  other  again  .soon,  father, 
really." 

But  Vasily  Ivanitch,  without  turning  i-ound. 
merely  waved  his  hand  and  left  the  i-oom.  ( )n 
reachinii"  his  bedroom  he  found  his  wife  in  bed. 
and  began  to  pray  in  a  \vhisj)ei-,  in  oi'der  not  to 
waken  her.  But  she  awoke,  nevertheless.  —  "  Is  it 
thou,  Vasily  Ivanitch?  "  —  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  dear  little  motlier." 

"  Comest  thou  from  Eniusha^  Dost  thou  know 
I  am  afraid:  he  does  not  sleep  comfortably  on  the 
couch.  I  ordered  Anfisushka  to  give  him  th\- 
camp  mattress  and  Jiew  ])illows:   1    wouhl   h;i\c 


1  A'PTTKUS    AM)   C  IIILDHKX 

given  him  <Kir  fcatlicr-lK'd,  l)iil  1  itnu'iiilxM-  that 
lie  does  not  hke  a  soft  hcd/' 

"  XeA'er  miiul.  dear  little  mother,  don't  woi'i'v. 
He's  all  ri^j^'ht.  ()  Loi-d.  have  nierey  upon  us 
sinners,"  —  lie  eontinued  his  ])rayer  in  a  low  voiee. 
A'asily  Ivaniteh  was  soitv  1'or  his  old  ^^•oMlan;  he 
did  not  like  to  tell  her  overnioht  what  a  sorrow 
was  in  store  for  her. 

Bazaroff  and  Arkady  went  away  on  the  fol- 
lowing dav.  From  earlv  moriiin"'  evervthino'  in 
the  house  ffrew  melaneholv;  the  dishes  tumhled 
out  of  Anfisnshka's  hands:  even  Fedka  was  sur- 
prised, and  ended  hy  pullino-  off  his  hoots.  Vasily 
Ivaniteh  hustled  ahout  more  than  ever:  he  was 
evidently  keeping  up  his  courage:  he  talked  in  a 
loud  voice  and  clum])ed  with  his  feet,  hut  his  face 
w^as  haggard  and  his  glances  constantly  slipped 
past  his  son.  Arina  Mjisievna  wept  quietly:  she 
was  thoroughly  distraught,  and  would  not  have 
been  able  to  control  herself  if  her  husband  had  not 
argued  with  her  for  two  whole  hours  earlv  in  the 
morning.  But  when  Bazaroff,  after  repeated 
promises  to  return  not  later  than  a  month  hence, 
tore  himself  at  last  from  the  restraining  embraces, 
and  took  his  seat  in  the  tarantas;  when  the  horses 
started  and  the  bell  began  to  jingle  and  the  wheels 
began  to  revolve,  —  and  there  was  no  longer  any 
use  in  staring  after  liim,  and  the  dust  had  sub- 
sided, and  Timofeiteh,  all  bowed  and  reeling  as 
he  walked,  dragged  himself  back  to  his  kennel" 

236 


FATHERS  AM)  CIIIM)1{|:\ 

when  the  old  J'olks  were  Id'l  alone  in  tlicir  house, 
wliieh  also  seemed  suddenly  to  lia\c  sliimik  to- 
gether and  gi'own  deerepit  :  N'asily  l\;initcji.  wlm 
only  a  few  nionients  hei'ore  had  heen  l»ia\ cK  \\a\  - 
int»-  his  handkerehief  from  the  porcli.  (Ii-()j>ped  into 
a  ehair  and  droo])ed  his  head  upon  liis  hicast. 
"  He  has  ahandoned,  al)andone(l  us,  '  he  stam- 
mered,—  "ahandoned  us;  he  I'onnd  it  tiresome 
with  us.  Alone,  solitary  as  a  fin«>er  now  .  alone!  " 
he  repeated  several  times,  and  every  time  he  thrust 
out  his  hand  in  front  of  him  witli  the  t'orefinner 
standing  apart.  Then  xVrina  Vlasievna  went  \i\) 
to  him,  and  leaning  her  grey  head  against  his  grey 
head,  she  said:  "  What  is  to  he  done.  \''asya^  A 
son  is  a  slice  cut  off.  He  is  like  the  falcon :  w  hen 
he  Avould  he  flew  hither,  when  he  would  he  lieu 
away;  thou  and  1  ai-e  like  mushrooms  on  a  iiol- 
low  tree:  we  sit  in  a  row  and  never  stir  IVoni  our 
])laces.  Only  I  shall  remain  forever  inalterahle 
to  thee,  as  thou  wilt  to  me." 

Vasily  Ivaniteh  removed  his  hands  iVoin  liis 
face  and  emhraced  his  wife,  his  fViend.  as  closely 
as  he  had  emhraced  her  in  their  youth:  she  had 
comforted  him  in  his  griei". 


237 


XXII 

In  silence,  only  now  and  then  exchanging  insig- 
nificant words,  our  friends  arrived  at  Feodot's. 
Eaziiroff  was  not  wholly  satisfied  with  liimself. 
Arkady  was  displeased  with  him.  ^loreover,  lie 
felt  in  his  heart  that  causeless  melancholy  which  is 
known  to  very  young  people  alone.  The  coach- 
man transferred  the  harness  to  the  fresh  horses, 
and  clamhering  to  the  hox,  in(iuired:  "  To  the 
right,  or  to  the  left?  " 

Arkady  shivered.  The  road  to  the  right  led  to 
the  town  and  thence  home;  the  road  to  the  left  led 
to  jMadame  Odintzoff's. 

He  glanced  at  Bazaroff. 

"  Evgeny,"— he  asked,  —  "  to  the  left?  " 

BaztirofF  turned  away. — "  What  folly  is  this?  " 
—  he  muttered. 

"  I  know  that  it  is  folly,"— replied  Arkady.  .  .  . 
"  But  where  's  the  harm  in  that?  Would  it  he  the 
first  time  we  have  perpetrated  it?" 

Bazjii-off'  ])ulled  his  ca])  down  on  his  hrow.— 
"  As  thou  \s  ill,"  —  he  said  at  last. 

"  Turn  lo  the  IcH;'  — shouted  Arkady. 

'i'he  tarantas  lollcd  on  in  the  directio?t  of 
Xikolskoe.      Bui    once    li:i\ing    decided    on    the 

2;38 


FA'IIIKHS   AM)   C  INLDHKN 

folly,  the  friends  maintained  a  more  obsti- 
nate silence  than  ever,  and  even  appeared  to  ht- 
angry. 

From  the  very  way  in  wliieh  tlie  butler  received 
them  on  the  porch  of  Madame  ()dint/ofl"'.s  lioiise 
the  friends  were  enabled  to  divine  thai  lluy  bad 
not  acted  wisely  in  yielding  to  the  whim  w  bicb  bad 
suddenly  seized  them.  Kvideiitly  they  were  not 
expected.  Thej'  sat  waiting  for  a  fairly  long  time, 
and  with  decidedly  foolish  faces,  in  the  drawing- 
room.  ]Madame  Odint/ofl'  came  at  last.  She 
greeted  them  with  the  graciousness  wbicb  was  pe- 
culiar to  her,  but  was  surprised  at  their  speedy  re- 
turn, and,  so  far  as  could  be  judged  from  the  de- 
liberation of  her  movements  and  her  speech,  she 
w^as  not  over  delighted  bv  it.  Thev  hastened  to  ex- 
plain  that  they  had  only  dropped  in  on  tlieir  way, 
and  four  hours  later  they  went  on  to  the  town.  Siie 
confined  herself  to  a  slight  exclamation,  reciuested 
Arkady  to  present  her  com])liments  to  his  father, 
and  sent  for  her  aunt.  The  Princess  made  ber 
appearance  in  a  very  sleepy  state,  which  imparted 
still  greater  malice  to  the  expression  ol'  bei-  wrin- 
kled old  face.  Katya  was  indisi)osed;  she  did  not 
leave  her  room.  Arkady  suddenly  became  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  he  vvas,  at  least,  as  desirous 
of  seeing  Katya  as  Anna  Sergyeevna  herself. 
The  four  hours  passed  in  insignificant  chat  about 
this  and  that;  i\nna  Sergyeevna  both  listened  and 
talked  without  a  smile.     C)?dy  .just  as  they  were 


FATTTKTJS   AM)   (  ITILDUEX 

takinu"  leave  did  her  loi'iiier  friendliness  seem  to 
stir  in  her  soul. 

"  I  have  a  fit  oi'  spleen  just  at  present,"  — 
she  said,  — "  but  you  must  pay  no  heed  to  that, 
and  come  again — I  am  sayino-  this  to  both  of  you, 
—  after  a  while." 

Both  RaziirofF  and  ^Vrkady  answered  her  by  a 
silent  bow,  seated  themselves  in  their  carriage,  and 
without  halting  again  anywhere,  drove  off  home 
to  Miirino.  where  they  arrived  in  safety  on  the 
following  day  at  evening.  During  the  whole 
course  of  the  iournev  neither  of  them  so  much  as 
mentioned  ^Madame  Odintzoff's  name;  Baziiroff, 
in  i:)articular,  hardly  opened  his  mouth,  and  kept 
staring  to  one  side  away  from  the  road  with  a  cer- 
tain obdurate  intensity. 

Every  one  at  ^Marino  was  extremely  glad  to  see 
them.  The  prolonged  absence  of  his  son  had  be- 
gun to  trouble  Nikolai  Petrovitch.  He  cried  out, 
flung  his  legs  about  and  bounced  about  on  the 
divan  when  Fenitchka  ran  into  his  room  with 
beaming  eyes  and  announced  the  arrival  of  "  the 
young  gentlemen";  even  Pavel  Petrovitch  felt  a 
certain  agreeable  agitation,  and  smiled  conde- 
scendingly as  he  shook  hands  with  the  returned 
wanderers.  They  began  to  talk  and  ask  ques- 
tions; Arkady  did  most  of  the  talking,  especially 
at  supper,  which  lasted  until  long  after  midnight. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  ordered  several  bottles  of  ])or- 
ter  to  ])(•  served,  which  had  just  been  brought  fi'om 

240 


FATIIKliS   AM)   (  IIII.I)1{K.\ 

Mosc'uw,  and  lie  liimsclf  iiiduloid  in  dissipalion 
to  such  an  extent  that  his  chirks  hecanic  (kcj) 
crimson,  and  lie  hiuglied  incessantly  in  a  wax 
whicli  was  not  precisely  childish  nor  \v[  piecisely 
nervous.  The  genei'al  exhilaration  extended  to 
the  servants  also.  Dnnyasha  ran  hack  and  i'oitli 
like  one  possessed,  and  kept  slaniniin;^-  tlic  doors, 
and  Piotr,  even  at  two  o'clock  in  the-  nl()^nin^^ 
was  still  tryijig  to  play  a  kazak  waltz  on  the 
guitar.  The  strings  resounded  wailingly  and 
pleasingly  in  the  motionless  air;  hut,  w  ith  the  ex- 
ception of  a  little  ])reliminary  fioritui'a,  the  edu- 
cated valet  could  i>et  nothini>'  out  of  liis  instru- 
ment:  nature  had  denied  him  musical  talent,  as 
well  as  all  other  faculties. 

]Meanwhile,  life  did  not  arrange  itself  very  coni- 
fortahly  at  Marino,  and  j)0()i-  Nikolai  IV-trovitch 
fared  l)a(lly.  His  anxieties  ahoul  the  I'aiin  aug- 
mented with  every  passing  day —cheerless,  inex- 
orable anxieties.  His  difficulties  with  his  hired 
labourers  became  unendurable.  Some  demandt-d 
their  pay  or  an  increase,  others  went  away  after 
they  had  received  theii-  earnest-money:  the  horses 
fell  ill;  the  harness  wore  out  as  though  hursicd 
with  fire;  the  work  was  heedlessly  done;  tlie 
threshing  machine  whicli  h.ad  been  ordered  from 
^Moscow  turned  out  to  he  unsuitable,  owing  to  its 
weight;  another  was  ruined  the  first  time  it  was 
used;  half  of  the  cattle-sheds  hnrnrd  down  he- 
cause  a  blind  old  woman,  one  ol'  the  house-serfs. 

211 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

went  ill  windy  weather  to  fumigate  her  cow  witii 
a  firebrand.  .  .  .  The  catastrophe  occurred,  it  is 
true,  according  to  the  assertion  of  that  same  old 
woman,  because  the  master  had  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  set  up  some  unheard-of  cheeses  and  dairy- 
products.  The  overseer  suddenly  grew  laz}^  and 
even  began  to  grow  fat,  as  every  Russian  man 
does  grow  fat  when  "  free  bread  "  falls  to  his  lot. 
On  catching  sight  from  afar  of  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch,  in  order  to  display  his  zeal,  he  would  fling 
a  chip  at  a  sucking-pig  which  was  running  by,  or 
menace  a  half -nude  little  bov;  but  the  rest  of  the 
time  he  spent  chiefly  in  sleeping.  The  j^easants 
who  had  been  placed  on  the  (juit-rent  basis  did 
not  bring  their  money  at  the  appointed  time  and 
stole  wood  in  the  forest;  almost  every  night  the 
watchmen  found,  and  sometimes  captured  after 
a  scrimmage,  the  peasants'  horses  in  the  meadows 
of  the  "  farm."  Nikolai  Petrovitch  tried  tlie  plan 
of  inflicting  a  fine  in  money  for  the  damage  done 
b}^  this  grazing,  but  the  affair  usually  ended  by 
the  horses  being  restored  to  tlieir  ownei's  after 
they  had  been  fed  at  liis  expense  for  a  day  oi- 
two.  To  crown  all,  the  peasants  began  to 
quarrel  among  themselves;  brotliers  demanded  a 
division,  their  wives  could  not  get  along  togetlier 
in  one  house;  all  at  once  a  brawl  began  to  rage, 
and  suddenly  everything  was  in  an  uproar,  as 
though  at  the  word  of  command  every  one  was 
nishing  past  the  porcli  of  tlie  estate-office  besieg- 

242 


FATIIKKS   AM)  C  Hli.DKKN 

ing  the  master,  often  with  hriiiscd  faces,  in  an  iti 
toxicated  condition,  and  dcnum<hn«4'  jiisiitv  and 
chastisement:  chimour  arose,  and  roars,  and  the 
whimpering  shrieks  oi'  women  mingled  witli  curses 
from  tlic  men.  It  hecame  necessary  In  exaniine 
into  the  confhcting  claims,  to  slioni  one's  sell' 
hoarse,  knowing  in  advance  that  it  w  as  im|)ossil)le. 
nevertheless,  to  arrive  at  any  correct  decision. 
There  were  not  liands  enongli  i'oi*  the  rea|)ing:  a 
neighhonring  peasant-pro])riet()r.  with  the  most 
ingratiating  conntenance,  had  contracted  to  lui- 
nish  reapers  at  two  rnhles  a  dcsyatina,  and  had 
cheated  in  the  most  imconscionahle  mannci-;  his 
peasant  women  demanded  nnheard-of  prices,  and. 
in  the  meantime,  the  grain  was  falling  from  the 
ear  upon  the  ground,  and  while  on  the  one  hand 
the  reaping  could  not  he  managed,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  Council  of  Guardians  was  menacing 
and  demanding  immediate  and  full  i)ayment  of 

interest  on  its  loan 

"  It  is  heyond  my  strength!  " — Xikohii  IV  tro- 
vitch  more  than  once  exclaimed  with  despair. 
"  It  is  out  of  the  question  for  me  to  tight  mysilf. 
and  my  principles  do  not  ])ermit  me  to  send  for 
the  chief  of  the  rural  police,  and  yet,  withont  the 
fear    of    punishment,    noiiiing    can    he    aei-oni- 

])lished!  " 

'  Du  calmcdii  cWwr/'— Pavel  Fetrovitch  re- 
plied to  thi.s,  hut  he  himself  purred  and  frowried 
and  tugged  at  his  moustache. 

248 


FAITTKHS   AND  CITTT.DREN 

BazarofF  held  himself  aloof  from  all  these 
"  squabbles,"  and,  moreover,  as  a  guest  it  was  not 
his  place  to  meddle  witli  other  people's  affairs. 
On  the  (hiy  after  iiis  arrival  at  Marino,  he  be- 
took himself  to  liis  frogs,  liis  infusorije,  liis  chem- 
ical com])ounds,  and  busied  himself  exclusively 
with  tliem.  Arkady,  on  the  contrary,  regarded  it 
as  his  duty,  if  not  to  aid  his  father,  at  least  to 
display  a  mien  of  being  ready  to  aid  him.  He 
listened  patiently  to  him,  and  one  day  he  offered 
some  piece  of  advice,  not  with  the  object  of  hav- 
ing it  followed,  but  for  the  sake  of  showing  his 
sympathy.  Farming  matters  did  not  arouse  re- 
pugnance in  him:  he  had  even  meditated  with 
])leasure  on  agricultural  activity;  but  at  that 
period  other  thoughts  were  swarming  in  his  brain. 
Arkady,  to  his  own  amazement,  thought  inces- 
santly of  Xikolskoe;  formei'ly  he  would  only  have 
shrugged  his  shoulders  if,  any  one  had  told  him 
that  he  could  feel  bored  mider  the  same  roof  with 
Bazaroff,  and  under  what  roof  to  boot! — 
that  of  his  father;  but  he  really  was  bored  and 
longed  to  get  away.  He  took  it  into  his  head  to 
walk  until  he  was  tired  out,  Init  this  was  of  no 
avail.  A\'hile  chatting  one  day  with  his  father  he 
learned  that  Xikolai  Petrovitcli  had  several  de- 
cidedly interesting  letters  written  in  former  days 
Ity  INIadame  Odintzoff 's  motlier  to  his  dead  wife, 
and  he  did  not  leave  him  in  ])eace  until  he  had  got 
possession   of  these  letters,   in   search   of  which 

244 


FATIIKHS  AND  CIIJLDKKX 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  obliged  to  nminiagt  in  a 
score  of  different  drawers  and  chests.  On  (.nter- 
iiig  into  possession  of  these  half-decayed  pai)ers. 
Arkady  seemed  to  calm  down,  just  as  though  Ik- 
perceived  ahead  of  him  the  goal  toMai-d  wliicli  it 
behooved  him  to  advance.  "  I  will  tell  you  both 
about  it/'  lie  kept  constantly  whispering,  — add- 
ing to  himself:  "  I  will  go,  I  will  go.  devil 
take  it!  "  But  he  recalled  his  last  visit,  the  cool 
reception  and  the  former  awkwardness,  and  was 
overcome  with  timidity.  The  *'  Perchance  "  ol* 
youth,  a  secret  desire  to  taste  his  happiness,  to  test 
his  powers  all  by  himself,  without  the  protection 
of  any  one  whomsoever — finallv  won  the  victorv. 
Ten  days  had  not  elapsed  after  his  retin-n  to 
]Marino  before  he  again  galloped  off  to  the  t()\vn, 
under  the  pretext  of  studying  the  mechanism  oi' 
the  Sunday-schools,'  and  thence  to  Xikolskoe. 
Incessantly  urging  the  postilion  to  greater  speed, 
he  dashed  thither  like  a  young  officer  to  a  battle: 
he  felt  afraid  and  gay  and  suffocating  with  im- 
patience. "  The  chief  thing  is  not  to  think."  he 
kept  rei)eating  to  himsell*.  lie  had  chanced  upon 
a  wild  postilion;  the  nuui  di-ew  uj)  in  I  roni  <>[' 
every  dram-shop,  saying:  "  Have  a  di-inl<r  oi- 
"  Don't  we  want  a  drink?  "  but,  on  the  other  hand. 
Mlien  once  he  had  got  his  drink  he  did  not  spare 

1  For  the  instruction  in  readinff,  writinj?,  and  the  <-onimon  hr.in.hrs. 
of  llinsf>  <Mii!:,)^-rfl  in  Inhor  during--  tin-  week:  not  scliools  for  tc;i<lni.;r 
rcli^non  rxciiisivrly.  .is  lli.it  siih.irct  oc-cu|.i<-s  ;i  proniinrnt  pl.irc  in  nil 
schools  in  Russia. -Tn  a n'S'.^tok. 

'21.) 


FATHERS  AXU  CHILUREX 

the  horses.  ..."  Wliat  am  I  doing?  "  — sud- 
denly flashed  through  Arkadj^'s  head.  "  ^^''ell,  I 
can't  turn  hack,  anyway! "  The  troika  rolled 
hriskly  on;  the  postilion  shouted  and  whistled. 
And  now  the  little  hridge  nunhled  under  the  hoofs 
and  wheels— now  the  ayenue  of  clip})ed  firs  made 
its  appearance.  ...  A  woman's  j)ink  gown  flashed 
amid  the  dark  yerdure,  a  young  face  peeped  out 

from  heneath  the  light  fringe  of  a  parasol 

He  recognised  Katya  and  she  recognised  him. 
Arkadj'  ordered  the  postilion  to  stop  the  gallop- 
ing horses,  sprang  out  of  the  equipage,  and  went 
up  to  her.  "  So  it  is  you!  "  —  she  said,  and  a  rosy 
flush  gradually  oyerspread  all  her  face:  —  "  Let  us 
go  to  my  sister;  she  is  yonder  in  the  garden;  she 
will  he  glad  to  see  3^ou." 

Katya  led  Arkady  to  the  garden.  His  meet- 
ing  with  her  seemed  to  him  a  peculiarly  liappy 
omen;  she  had  been  as  delighted  to  see  him  as 
though  he  were  a  member  of  the  family.  Eyery- 
thing  had  turned  out  so  capitally:  neither  butler 
nor  announcement.  At  the  turn  of  the  path  he 
caught  sight  of  Anna  Sergyeeyna.  She  was 
standing  M'ith  her  back  to  him.  On  hearing  foot- 
steps she  gently  turned  round. 

Arkady  ^\as  on  the  point  of  feeling  discon- 
certed, ])ut  the  flrst  words  she  uttered  immedi- 
ately restored  his  com])osure.  "  Good-morning, 
fugitiyc!"  she  said  in  her  eyen,  gracious  yoice, 
and  adyanced  to  meet  liim,  smihng  and  l)linking 

24G 


1  ATllKUS  AXD  CIULDKKN 

with  tlic  sun  and  the  vvhul:  "  Where  (Hdsl  thou 
find  liini,  Kat\  a  :"  " 

"  1  have  hrouglit  you  sonietliin^/'  he  he<;aii, 
— "  Anna  Seryveevna,  whieli  vou  weix-  not  in  tlie 
least  expeeting 

"  You  have  hrou(>lit  vourself ;  tliat  is  the  hrsi 
of  all." 


247 


XXIII 

After  seeing  Arkady  (^ff  with  mocking  sym- 
pathy, and  giving  him  to  understand  tliat  he  was 
not  in  the  shghtest  degree  deceived  as  to  the  real 
object  of  his  journey,  Bazaroff  definitively  iso- 
lated himself:  the  fe^'er  of  work  had  descended 
upon  him.  He  no  longer  argued  with  Pavel  Pet- 
rovitch,  the  more  so,  as  the  latter  in  liis  presence 
assumed  an  extremely  aristocratic  mien  and  ex- 
pressed his  opinions  more  by  sounds  than  by 
words.  Only  once  did  Pavel  Petrovitch  enter  into 
a  controversy  with  the  uiJiilist  on  the  question 
^^■hich  was  then  in  fashion  as  to  the  rights  of  the 
nobility  of  the  Baltic  Provinces,  but  he  suddenly 
checked  himself,  saying  with  cold  courtesy: 
"  However,  we  cannot  understand  each  other;  I, 
at  least,  have  not  the  honour  to  understand  you." 

"I  should  tliink  not!" — exchiimed  BazarofF. 
— "  A  man  is  ca})able  of  understanding  every- 
thing—the j)ulsation  of  tlie  etlier  and  ^\•hat  is 
going  on  in  the  sun;  but  liow  anotlier  man  can 
blow  his  nose  in  any  other  way  than  lie  blows  liis 
own,— that  lie  is  not  capable  of  understanding." 

"Is  that  witty?"  — said  Pavel  Peti'ovitcli  in- 
quiringly, and  withdrew  to  one  side.     However, 

248 


IWrilKKS   AM)  (  IIILDKKX 

lie  sometimes  asked  permission  to  Ik-  present  .-it 
Bazaroff's  experiments,  and  onee  even  he  put  liis 
faee,  pei-i'inned  and  washed  with  an  cxccllfnt 
preparation,  down  to  tlie  mieroseope.  in  order  to 
watcli  a  trans])arenl  infusoria  swallow  a  <»reen 
pai-tiele  and  ehew  it  u[)  earei'ully  with  eertain  \  (  ry 
agile  little  fists  wliieh  it  had  in  its  thi-oat.  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  visited  Bazaroff  mueh  more  frecjuently 
than  did  his  brother;  he  would  gladly  tunc  eonir 
eveiy  day  "  to  study,"  as  he  expressed  it,  had  not 
the  cares  of  his  estate  called  him  elsewhere.  lie 
did  not  disturb  the  young  naturalist;  he  seated 
himself  somewhere  in  a  corner  and  watched  at- 
tentively, rarely  permitting  himself  a  cautious 
question.  During  dinner  and  supper  he  endcax  - 
oured  to  turn  the  conversation  on  physics,  geol- 
ogy or  chemistry,  as  all  other  subjects,  even  those 
connected  with  farming,  not  to  mention  those  con- 
nected with  politics,  might  lead  if  not  to  collisions, 
at  least  to  mutual  dissatisfaction.  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch divined  that  his  brother's  hatred  foi-  Hazii- 
rofF  was  not  in  the  least  diminished.  One  insig- 
nificant incident,  among  many  others,  confirmed 
him  in  his  surmise.  The  cholera  had  In'gun  to 
make  its  appearance  here  and  there  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  had  even  "  culled  "  a  coupK'  of  per- 
sons from  ^NTjirino  itself.  One  night  IMvel  Petn'i- 
vitch  had  a  rather  severe  attack.  Tie  sufVcicd 
agonies  until  morning,  but  did  not  have  i-eeours( 
to  Bazaroff's  art  — and  when  he  saw  liini  on  t1i<- 

240 


FA'IHKHS   AM)  (HITT)KKX 

following  day,  to  his  query:  "  Why  had  not  he 
sent  for  him?"— he  replied,  still  ghasth^  pale, 
but  with  his  hair  already  well  brushed  and  face 
carefully  shaved:—"  Why,  I  believe  you  said 
yourself  that  you  did  not  believe  in  medicine." 
Thus  the  days  passed  on ;  Bazaroff  toiled  stul)- 
boridy  and  gloomily  .  .  .  and  meanwhile  there  was 
in  Nikolai  Petrovitch's  house  a  being  with  whom 
he  not  only  relieved  his  heart,  but  oladly  con- 
versed.  .  .  That  being  was  Fenitchka. 

His  interviews  with  her  generally  took  place 
early  in  the  morning  in  the  garden  or  in  the  yard ; 
he  did  not  go  to  her  room,  and  she  never  went  but 
once  to  his  door  to  ask  him  whether  or  not  she 
ought  to  bathe  ^Nlitya?  She  not  only  trusted  him, 
she  not  only  did  not  fear  him,  but  she  bore  herself 
in  his  j^resence  with  more  freedom  and  ease  than 
even  with  Nikolai  Petrovitch  himself.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  say  whence  this  arose;  perhaps  from  the 
fact  that  she  unconscioush'  felt  in  Bazaroff  tlie 
absence  of  everything  savouring  of  the  gentry 
class,  of  all  that  loftiness  which  ])oth  attracts  and 
intimidates.  In  her  eyes  he  was  a  capital  doctor 
and  a  simple  man.  AVithout  feeling  embarrassed 
by  his  presence,  she  busied  herself  with  her  baby; 
and  one  day,  when  her  head  suddenh^  began  to 
reel  and  ache,  she  accepted  a  spoonful  of  medicine 
from  his  hand.  Before  Nikolai  Petrovitch  she 
seemed  to  shun  Bazaroff:  she  did  this  not  out  of 
craft,  but  fi'om  a  certain  sentiment  of  decorum. 

250 


FATHERS  AND  ClllLDUKN 

Pavel  Petrovitcli  she  feared  more  tliaii  c\er;  lor 
some  time  past  he  had  taken  to  watching  her,  and 
was  wont  suddenly  to  make  his  appearanee,  as 
though  he  had  sprung  out  of  tlie  earth  heliind  lier 
back  in  his  English  suit,  with  keen,  immoval)le 
face,  and  hands  in  his  pockets.  —  "  He  fairly  sends 
a  chill  down  your  back,"  Fenitchka  com])hnn('(]  to 
Dunyasha,  and  the  latter  in  reply  sighed  and 
thought  of  another  "  unfeeling  "  man.  Ha/aroflf*. 
without  himself  suspecting  the  fact,  liad  l)ecome 
the  cruel  tyrant  of  her  soul. 

Fenitchka  liked  Bazaroff  and  he  also  liked  her. 
Even  his  face  underwent  a  change  wlien  lie  talked 
with  her:  it  assumed  a  clear,  almost  kindly  ex- 
jjression,  and  a  certain  playful  attentiveness  be- 
came mingled  with  its  wonted  carelessness. 
Fenitchka  grew  handsomer  with  every  i)assing 
day.  There  is  a  period  in  the  life  of  young  women 
when  thev  suddenlv  bei»'in  to  l)l()ssom  out  and  uii- 
fold  like  summer  roses;  this  period  had  arrived  lor 
Fenitchka.  Everything  contributed  thereto,  even 
the  sultry  Julv  heat  which  then  ])revaile(l.  C  lad 
in  a  thin  white  gown,  she  jierself  seemed  \\liit(  i- 
and  lighter:  sunburn  did  not  afi'eei  her.  and  the 
heat,  from  which  she  could  not  guard  heiself,  coiii- 
municated  a  faint  rose  tint  to  her  cheeks  and  rais. 
and  infusing  a  gentle  lassitude  into  all  Ik  r  iiody, 
was  reflected  with  dreamy  languor  in  lu  r  Inau- 
tiful  eyes.  She  could  hardly  work  at  all:  licr 
hands  simply  fell  into  her  lap.   She  liartlly  \s  alkcd 

251 


1  ATIIEKS  AM3  ClllLDUEN 

at  all  and  kept  groaning  and  complaining  with 
anmsing  weakness. 

"  Thou  shouldst  hathe  more  frequently,"  — 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  said  to  her.  He  had  huilt  a 
large  hath-house,  covered  with  canvas,  in  that  one 
of  his  ])onds  which  had  not  already  (|uite  dried  up. 

'' Okh,  Nikolai  Petrovitch!  l^ut  one  would 
die  before  getting  to  the  pond,  and  to  walk  back 
would  kill  one.  There  's  no  shade  in  the  garden, 
you  see." 

"  There  is  no  shade,  it  is  true,"  — replied  Nikolai 
Petrovitch,  and  mopped  his  brows. 

One  day,  about  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Ba/aroft\  as  he  was  returning  from  a  stroll,  found 
Fenitchka  in  the  hlac  arbour,  long  since  out  of 
bloom,  but  still  green  and  thick.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  bench  with  a  white  kerchief  thrown  o\'er 
her  head,  according  to  her  custom ;  beside  her  lay 
a  whole  sheaf  of  red  and  white  roses,  still  wet  with 
dew.    He  bade  her  good  morning. 

"  Ah!  Evgeny  Yasilitch!  "  she  said,  and  raised 
the  edge  of  her  kerchief  a  little  to  look  at  him,  in 
which  operation  her  arm  was  baird  to  the  elbow. 

"  What  are  you  doing  herei'  "  —  said  Ba/aroff, 
seating  himself  by  her  side.  —  "  Are  you  binding 
up  a  bouquet?  " 

"  Yes;  for  the  breakfast  table.  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch likes  it." 

"  But  it  is  still  a  long  time  to  breakfast.  AMiat 
a  mass  of  flowers!  " 

252 


FATIIKKS    AM)   (  IIII.DUI-A' 

I  picked  llicni  now  iK'causc  il  w  ill  '^v{  liol. 
and  it  will  he  iiii])().ssil)k'  to  ^o  out.  It  is  oiiK  at 
this  hour  that  one  can  brcal lie.  1  lla\(•l()^t  all  iii\ 
strength  with  this  heat.  1  'mi  hc-i^innin;^-  t<»  lif 
afraid  that  1  am  f'allino-  ill." 

"  A\'hat  a  whimsical  ideal     Jleic.   lit    wn-   led 
your  pulse."  —  Bazaroff"  took  her  hand,  soni^lit  the 
evenlv-beatiim"  artei'v.  and  did  not  e\(n  eoinit  its 
pulsations.  — "  You  will  li\e  a  hnndicd  \ cais." 
he  said  as  he  I'eleased  her  arm. 

"  Akh,  (xod  foi'hid!  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Wliv  ^    Don't  vou  want  to  live  a  Ion"!'  time'  "" 

"  Yes,  hut  a  hundred  years!  Our  <'randmotlier 
was  eighty-five  years  old — and  what  a  maityi-  she 
was!  Black,  deaf,  bent,  she  couched  incessantly; 
she  was  only  a  biu'den  to  herself.     \\'liat  a  lilel  "' 

"  So  it  is  better  to  be  young:'  " 

"  Of  course;  \vhy  not?  " 

"  But  how  is  it  better?    Tell  me." 

"What  do  you  mean  bv  '  how  " '  Here  I  am 
young  now,  I  can  do  everything,—  I  go  and  come, 
and  fetch  and  carry,  and  I  am  not  obliged  to  ask 
any  one.  .  .  AVhat  can  be  better:'" 

"Why,  it's  all  the  same  to  me  whethei-  I  am 
young  or  old." 

"What  is  it  you  say— that  it  is  all  the  same? 
What  you  say  is  impossible." 

"Come,  judge  for  yourself.  Fed(').sya  \iko- 
Meyna;  of  what  use  to  me  is  m>  xoidh'  1  live 
alone,  a  poor,  wretched  fellow " 

2.53 


FATHKHS   AM)  CHILDHFA 

"  That  always  depends  on  you." 

"  That 's  precisely  the  point,  that  it  does  not 
depend  on  me !  I  wish  somebody  woidd  take  pity 
on  me." 

Fenitchka  <>aze(l  askance  at  Bazaroff,  but  said 
nothing.  —  "  Wliat  book  have  you  tliere?  "  —  she 
asked  after  a  pause. 

"  This?     It  is  a  learned,  wise  book." 

"And  you  are  always  studying?  Doesn't  it 
bore  you?  1  think  you  must  know  everything  by 
this  time." 

"  Evidently,  I  don't  know  everything.  Try  to 
read  a  little  of  this." 

"  But  I  shall  not  understand  anytliing.  Is  it  in 
Russian?  "  —  asked  Fenitchka,  grasping  tlie  heav- 
ily bound  book  with  both  hands.  — "  How  thick 
it  is!" 

"  Yes,  it  is  in  Russian." 

"  That  makes  no  difference;  I  shall  not  under- 
stand anything." 

"  But  I  am  not  giving  it  to  you  with  the  object 
of  having  you  understand  it.  I  want  to  watch 
you  while  you  read.  AVhen  you  read,  tlie  tip  of 
your  little  nose  moves  very  ])rettily." 

Fenitchka,  who  was  beginning  to  decipher  in 
an  undertone  the  first  article  whicli  came  to  hand 
"  about  creosote,"  broke  out  laugliing,  and  threw 
aside  the  book  ...  it  slid  from  the  bench  to  tlie 
ground. 

254 


FATIIKKS  AND  CIIll.DHKN 

"  1  am  also  ibiicl  ol'  seeing  yoii  laii^^li,  said 
Bazaroff. 

"Do  stop!" 

"  1  love  to  hear  voii  talk.  It  is  like  [he  lialtMiiii' 
of  a  brook." 

Fenitchka  turned  away  her  head.—  "  What  a 
queer  man  you  are!  "—she  said,  her  fingers  stiay- 
ing  among  the  flowers.  —  "And  \\]\y  should  you 
care  to  listen  to  me?  Vou  lune  had  c'<)n\(iMiti(»ii 
with  such  clever  folks." 

"  Kkh,  Fedosya  Xikolaevna!  believe  me:  all 
the  clever  ladies  in  the  world  air  not  worth  your 
elbow." 

"  Come,  now,  you  have  invented  something 
else!  " — whispered  Fenitchka,  and  folded  her 
arms. 

Bazaroff  ])icked  the  book  up  I'roni  the  ground. 
—  "This  is  a  medical  book:  why  do  you  liiug  it 
away?  " 

"  A  medical  book?  "  —  repeated  Feuitehka.  and 
turned  toward  him.  — "  But  do  you  know  whatf 
Ever  since  you  gave  me  those  drops  — you  retueiu- 
ber?— Mitya  has  slept  so  well!  I  can't  think  how 
to  thank  you;  you  are  so  kind,  really." 

"  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  one  should  i)ay  llu 
doctor,"  — remarked  Ha/aroff  with  a  grin.  - 
"Doctors  are  greedy   felloNvs.  ><'n   know." 

Fenitchka  raised  her  cms  to  !?a/arofV.  and  thev 
seemed  still  darker  than  nsnak  o\n  ing  to  the  whil- 

•i.5.5 


FATHERS    AM)    CHILDREN 

ish  rt'fit'C'tioji  wliicli  fell  upon  the  uj)per  part  of 
her  face.  She  did  not  knoNN'  A\hcther  he  was  jest- 
ing or  not. 

"  If  you  like,  we  will  j)ay  you,  with  pleasure.  . .  . 
I  must  ask  Nikolai  Petrovitch.   .   ." 

"  But  do  vou  think  I  want  nionevif  "  —  Bazaroff 
rnterrupted  her.  — "  No,  1  want  no  money  from 
you." 

"  ^^'hat  thenJ"  "  —  said  Fenitehka. 

"  What?  " — repeated  Bazaroff.  —  "  Guess." 

"  I  never  can  guess  anything!  " 

"  Then  1  will  tell  you ;  I  want  ....  one  of 
these  roses." 

Again  Fenitehka  burst  out  laughing  and  even 
clasped  her  hands,  so  amusing  did  Bazaroff's  de- 
sire seem  to  her.  She  laughed,  and  at  the  same 
time  she  felt  flattered.  Bazaroff  gazed  intently 
at  her. 

"  Very  well,  very  well,"  —  she  said  at  last,  and 
bending  toward  the  bench  she  began  to  sort  o\er 
the  roses.  — "  Which  would  you  like — a  red  or  a 
white  one?" 

"  A  red  one,  but  not  too  large." 

She  straightened  herself  up.  — "  Here,  lake  it," 
—  she  said,  Init  immediately  drew  back  her  oul- 
stretched  hand,  and  biting  her  hj).  east  a  glance 
at  the  entrance  to  the  arbour  —  then  be<>an  to 
listen. 

"  What  s  the  mattei-:'  " — inquired  Bazaroff. — 
"  Nikolai  Petrovitch?" 

256 


FATIIKKS    AM)   (  1 1  I  1 ,1  )K  i:\ 

''  \().  .  .  .  lie  lias  n-diic  It)  tlu  Tk  Ids  .  .  .  a?nl 
I  'ni  not  al'rnid  of  liiin  ....  hiil  as  loi-  l*;i\(l 
J^ctmvilcli II  sc'iiiu'd  to  me "" 

"  Whatr' 

It  seemed  to  me  iliat  lie  was  walkiiij'  llicrc 
Xo  .  .  .  there  is  no  one.  Take  il."  I'cnitdika 
<>"uve  Ha/iirofi'  a  ro.se. 

*' Wliat  makes  yon  afraid  of  P;i\(l  Ptlro- 
vitehT' 

"  He  always  f'ri<>litens  me.  Wliether  lie  sav.s 
anything  or  not,  he  looks  qneer.  And  eeilainly 
vou  don't  like  him  either.  Voii  rememher  voii 
used  to  be  forever  disputing  with  him.  I  don't 
know  what  you  were  dis])uting  ahonl,  hut  1  eonld 
see  that  you  twisted  him  ahout  .so  and  so.   .   .   ." 

Fenitchka  demonstrated  with  her  hands  how, 
in  her  opinion,  Bazaroff  had  twi.sted  Pavel  I'etro- 
vitch  ahout. 

Bazaroff  smiled.  — "  And  if  there  had  ])een  any 
danger  of  his  vantjuishing  me  yon  wonid  have 
stood  up  for  me?  "  —  he  incjuired. 

"  How  should  I  have  stood  up  foi-  xoii:'    W'liv, 

,     I.  ■  • 

no  one  can  overcome  you." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Bnt  1  know  a  hand  which, 
if  it  wished,  eonld  knock  me  on  cr  with  om-  finger." 

•'What  hand  is  that?" 

"  Is  it  i)ossihle  that  you  do  no!  know?— Sm<  II 
and  see  how  s))lendid  is  the-  |)crrimie  of  the  rose 
you  liave  given  me." 

Fenitchka  stretclH^d  onl  her  neck  and  \n\\  Ik  r 

257 


FATITEKS   AM)  CIIII.DHKX 

face  close  to  the  flower.  .  .  The  kercliiel'  slipped 
from  her  head  to  her  shoulders;  a  soft  mass  of 
shining  hlack  hair,  slightly  dishevelled,  was  re- 
vealed to  view. 

""Wait:  I  want  to  smell  it  with  you/' —said 
l^azaroff*,  and  he  hent  o\er  and  kissed  lier  firndy 
on  lici'  |)artc(l  lips. 

She  shuddered,  and  rei)elled  him  with  hotli 
hands  against  his  hreast,  hut  her  resistance  was 
weak,  and  he  was  ahle  to  repeat  and  prolong  his 
kisses. 

A  dry  cough  resounded  hehind  the  lilacs. 
Fenitclika  instantly  moved  to  the  other  end  of  the 
bench.  ]^avel  Petrovitch  made  his  appearance, 
made  a  slight  bow,  and  saying,  with  a  sort  of 
malicious  dejection  —  "  Are  you  here?  "  —  with- 
drew. 

Fenitchka  immediately  gathered  up  all  her 
roses  and  went  out  of  the  arbour.  "  Shame  on 
you,  Evgeny  Vasnievitch,"  — she  whispered  as  she 
went.  Unfeigned  re])roach  was  audible  in  lier 
whisper. 

Ba/iirofF  suddenly  recalled  another  scene  of  re- 
cent occurrence,  and  felt  conscience-stricken  and 
scornfully  vexed  with  himself.  Hut  he  immedi- 
ately shook  his  liead,  ironically  congratulated  him- 
self  on  his  "  formal  entrance  on  the  career  of  a 
Lovelace,"  and  went  off  to  liis  chamber. 

But  Pavel  Petrovitch  (piitted  the  garden,  and 
strolling  slowh',  reached  the  forest.    lie  remained 

258 


FATllKKS    AM)    (  1 1  I  1 .1  )|{  lA 

there  lor  ti  rallicr  l<)ii<>'  tiiiR',  and  w  luii  lie  rctiiiiu  d 
to  breakfast  Nikolai  Pelr('»\  ilcli  nskcd  liim  with 
anxiety  whether  he  was  w ell  so  dark  had  liis  lace 
grown. 

"  As  tiiou  knowest,  1  soiiietiiiies  siilVer  iVnin  an 
overflow  of  bile,"  Pavel  I'etroviteh  answered  him 
Avith  composure. 


*251> 


XXIV 

Two  hours  later  lie  knocked  at  Bazaroff' s  door. 

"  1  must  make  my  excuses  for  disturbing  yor 
in  your  learned  occupations,  '  he  began,  as  he 
seated  himself  on  a  chair  near  the  window  and 
rested  both  hands  on  a  handsome  cane  with  an 
ivory  handle — (he  generally  walked  without  a 
cane) ,  — "  but  I  am  compelled  to  request  that  you 
will  bestow  upon  me  five  minutes  of  your  time — 
!io  more." 

"  All  my  time  is  at  your  (Usposal,"  — replied 
]ia'/aroft*,  over  whose  face  sometliing  had  flitted 
as  soon  as  Pavel  Petrovitcli  ci'ossed  tlie  threshold 
of  the  door. 

"  Five  minutes  will  suffice  for  me.  I  liave  cc'mie 
to  ])ro])oun(l  one  (juestion  to  you." 

"  A  (juestion  ^    What  is  it  al)out  (  " 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  lieai'  me  out.  iVt  tlie  ])egin- 
ning  of  voui"  sojourn  in  my  l)r()tlu'i''s  liouse,  wlien 
as  yet  1  had  not  denied  myself  the  [)leasure  of 
conversing  with  you,  1  chanced  to  hear  you  ex- 
press your  views  on  many  subjects;  but  so  far  as 
my  memory  serves  me,  neither  between  us  nor  in 
my  ])resence  did  ihc  (•()n\  ei'sation  turn  uj)on  the 
subject  of  duels  oi"  of  diK  lling  in  general.     Pei'- 

2G0 


FATIIKKS    AM)   (  IIILDIM-.X 

mil  me  (o  iii(|(iiir,  ulial   is  your  «>[>iiii<>ii  nn  lliat 
])oint?  " 

l^a/{iroff',  wlio  liad  risen  al  l\i\(l  Petic'tviteirs 
entrance,  seated  liinisell'  on  llie  ednc  of  a  cliair 
and  folded  his  arms. 

"  lliis  is  m\'  ()i)inion/'^sai(l  lie;-"  I^'rom  tin 
theoretical  point  of  view  a  duel  is  a  piece  ol"  folly: 
but  from  the  practical  point  of  \  iew,      it  is  (|uiti- 
another  matter." 

"  That  is,  vou  mean  to  sav.  if  I  lia\ c  inidcrslood 
you  aright,  that  whatever  may  he  yoin-  tlicorelical 
views  as  to  duelling  i?i  |)i-aetiee.  yon  would  not 
allow  yourself  to  he  insulted  w  illioiit  di  niMMdiiig 
satisfaction." 

"  You  have  ])erfectly  di\incd  my  thought." 

"Very  good,  sii".  I  am  wvy  much  pleased  to 
hear  this  from  you.  Voui-  woi-ds  free  me  I'lom 
uncertainty.  .  .   ." 

"  From  indecision,  you  mean  to  say." 

"  That  is  the  same  thing,  sir:  I  am  expressing 
myself  in  this  manner  so  that  I  may  he  utider- 
stood;  I  'm  no  seminary  rat.  Voni-  woids  release 
me  from  a  certain  sad  necessity.  1  lia\<  made  up 
my  mind  to  tiglit  with  you." 

Bazaroff  opened  his  eyes  wide.  —  "  AVith  me' 

"  Yes,  without  fail."  " 

"  But  what  for?  good  gracious." 

"T  miglit  explain  the  cause  to  yon."  -  hegan 
Pavel  Petrovitch:-"  hul  I  prefer  to  remair. 
silent  on  that  ])oint.     To  my  taste  >(>n  are  sni)ei- 

2G1 


FATIIKUS   AM)  C'lIILDinsX 

Hiious  here;  1  cannot  endure  you,  I  despise  you, 
and  if  tliat  is  not  enoutrh  for  you  .   .  .  ." 

Pavel  Petrovitcli's  eyes  flashed.  .  .  15azaroff's 
hegan  to  flame  also. 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  —  said  he.  —  "  Further  expla- 
nations are  unnecessary.  Tlie  fancy  has  seized 
vou  to  make  a  trial  of  vour  chivalrous  s])irit  on 
me.  I  might  refuse  you  that  satisfaction ;  hut  let 
that  pass." 

"  I  am  intensely  indehted  to  you,"  —  replied 
Pavel  Petrovitch.  — "  and  can  now  hope  that  you 
will  accept  my  challenge  without  forcing  me  to 
have  recourse  to  violent  measures." 

"  That  is,  speaking  a\  ithout  allegories,  to  that 
cane?"  —  remarked  Bazaroff'  coolly.  —  "That  is 
quite  correct.  There  is  no  necessity  whatever  for 
your  insulting  me.  And  it  is  not  entirely  devoid 
of  danger.  You  can  remain  a  gentleman.  ...  I 
accept  yoiu*  challenge,  also  in  a  gentlemanly 
manner." 

"  Veiy  good  indeed," — said  Pavel  PetnSvitch, 
and  ))laced  his  cane  in  a  corner.  — "  We  will  im- 
mediately say  a  few  words  about  the  conditions 
of  our  duel;  but  first  I  should  like  to  understand 
whether  you  consider  it  indispensable  to  resort 
to  the  formality  of  a  small  ])reliminarv  (|uarrel, 
which  might  serve  as  the  ])retext  for  my  chal- 
lenge? " 

"  Xo.     It  is  better  without  any  formalities." 

"  I  think  so  myself.    I  also  assume  that  it  is  in- 

2G2 


FATIIKKS    AM)    (  1 1  I  I  I  )|{  I  A 

opportune  to  enter  into  the  genuine  causes  of  our 
conflict.  We  caiuiot  endure  each  other.  What 
more  is  needed?  " 

"  What  more  is  needed  r  "  repeated  Ha/arofV 
ironically. 

"As  re<>-ards  the  conditions  themselves  of  the 
duel,  as  we  shall  have  no  seconds,  for  where  arr 
we  to  get  them?  " 

"  Precisely;  where  are  we  to  "^ct  liiem^  " 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  |)ro[»ose  to  you  th<  I'ol- 
lowino-:  That  we  shall  fioht  to-nionow  rnoiiiinu 
early,  let  us  say  at  six  o'clock,  hehind  thi'  ai(»\c. 
with  pistols;  the  harrier  at  ten  paces.   .   .   ." 

"  Ten  paces?  that  's  so;  we  hate  eaeli  other  at 
that  distance' 

"  We  might  make  it  eight,"  -i-emarked  P.-i\ el 
Petrovitch. 

"  We  might;  why  not?  " 

"  We  will  fire  twice;  and  each  of  us  w  ill  |)ut  ;i 
note  in  his  pocket  —  in  case  of  accidents  in  \\  hieh 
he  will  cast  the  hlanie  f'oi-  liis  death  u|)on  iiinisell"." 

"  On  that  point  I  am  not  (jultc  in  accoid  \\  ith 
you,"  —  said  Baziirolt'.  — '"  It  smacks  somewliat  ol' 
a  French  romance,  —  it  lacks  prohahility." 

"  Possihly.  l^ut  you  must  admit  tli;it  it  wouhl 
he  iui})leasant  to  suhject  one's  self  lo  I  he  suspicion 
of  having  committed  minder." 

"I  do  admit  that.  Hut  theix-  is  a  means  ol 
avoiding  that  sad  re])roach.  We  shall  ha\e  no  sec- 
onds, hut  we  may  have  a  w  itness." 

2(53 


FATTI1^1^S   AM)  ('TIILl)KKX 

"  W'lio,  precisely,  permit  me  to  ask?  " 

"  Why,  Piotr."' 

"  WhatPiotr?" 
Your  })rother's  valet.    He  is  a  man  who  stands 
on  the  crest  of  contenipoi-ary  civilisation  and  will 
play  his  ]:)art  with  all  the  cowmc  it  faut  indispen- 
sahle  in  such  cases." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  you  are  jesting,  my  dear 
sn\ 

"  Not  in  the  least.  If  von  will  consider  my 
proi)ositi()n,  you  will  hecome  convinced  that  it  is 
full  of  common  sense  and  simplicity.  You  cannot 
hide  an  awl  in  a  bag,  and  I  take  it  upon  myself  to 
prepare  Piotr  in  the  ])roper  manner,  and  bring 
him  to  the  field  of  battle." 

"  You  persist  in  jesting,"  — ejaculated  Pavel 
Petrovitch,  rising  from  his  seat.  — "  But  after  the 
amiable  readiness  which  you  have  displayed  I 
have  no  right  to  be  too  exacting  with  you.  .  .  . 
And  so  everything  is  arranged.  .  .  .  By  the  way, 
you  have  no  pistols?  " 

"  Where  should  I  get  any  pistols,  Pavel  Petro- 
vitch?   I  am  not  a  warrior." 

"  In  that  case,  I  offer  you  mine.  You  may  feel 
assured  that  it  is  five  years  since  I  have  fired 
them." 

"  That  is  a  very  comforting  piece  of  news." 

Pavel  Petrovitch  got  his  cane.  ..."  And 
now,  my  dear  sir,  it  only  remains  for  me  to 
thank   you   and   surrender  you  to  your  occupa- 

264 


FATHERS  AM)  (  IIILDinA 

tions  again.     1  have  the  lioiiuiir  to  hid  yuii  goml 
morning." 

"  Farewell  until  our  agreeable  iiieeling,  my 
dear  sir,"  —  said  Bazaroff*,  as  lie  eseorted  his  guest 
to  the  door. 

Pavel  Petroviteh  departed,  hut  liazaioll"  stood 
still  in  front  of  the  door,  and  suddenly  exelainied  : 
"  Whew!  the  devil!  how  fine  and  how  stu|)id!     A 
pretty    comedy    we    have    undertaken    to    i)layl 
That  's  the  way  trained  dogs  dance  on  their  hind 
legs.    But  it  was  imjwssihle  to  refuse;  for  J  think 
he  would  have  struck  me,  and  then  ..."  (  Ba/aroff 
turned  pale  at  the  mere  thought;  all  his  pride  rose 
up  in  arms.)     "  Then  1  shoidd  have  been  obliged 
to   strangle   him   like   a   kitten."      lie    retuiiud 
to   his   microscope,    but    his   heart    was   aroused, 
and  the  composure  which  was  indisi)ensable  for 
his  observations  had  vanished.  —  "  He  saw   us  to- 
day,"—he  thought,  "  but  can  it  be  that  he  is  stand- 
ing up  for  his  brother^    But  of  what  importance 
is  a  kiss?    There  's  something  else  hei-e.    Ba !  is  n't 
he  in  love  himself^     Of  course  he  is:  that   is  as 
clear  as  the  day.    AVhat  a  com])licated  mess,  \\  hen 
you  come  to  think  of  it!  ...    1 1  "s  a  bad  busi- 
ness! "  —  he  decided  at  last:  —  "  it  's  a  bad  iuisiness, 
look  at  it  from  whichever  side  you  will.     In  the 
first  place,  I  must  risk  my  life,  and,  in  any  case, 
go   away;    and    there's    Arkady  •  •  .arid    that 
ladv-hug,  Nikolai  Petroviteh.     'T  is  a  bad.  l)ad 

business." 

•20.5 


FATHEKS  xVXD  ClllLDKEX 

The  day  passed  somehow  m  a  pecidiarly  quiet 
and  languid  manner.  It  was  as  though  Fenitchka 
:Hd  not  exist  in  the  world;  she  sat  in  her  little 
room  like  a  mouse  in  its  hole.  Nikolai  Petrovitcli 
had  a  careworn  aspect.  He  had  l)een  informed 
that  rust  had  made  its  a])])earance  in  his  wheat, 
on  which  lie  had  set  special  hopes.  Pavel  Petro- 
\  itch  crushed  every  one,  even  Prokofitch,  with  his 
icy  politeness.  BazarofF  began  a  letter  to  his 
father,  but  tore  it  up  and  flung  it  under  the  table. 
"  If  I  die,"  —  he  thought,  "  they  will  hear  of  it: 
but  I  shall  not  die.  Xo,  I  shall  live  on  from  hand 
to  mouth  in  this  world  for  a  long  time  to  come." 
— He  ordered  Piotr  to  come  to  him  at  daybreak 
on  the  following  morning  for  an  important  af- 
fair; Piotr  imagined  that  he  wished  to  take  him 
with  him  to  Petersburg.  Bazaroff  went  to  bed 
late,  and  incoherent  dreams  tormented  him  all 
night  long.  .  .  .  JNIadame  Odfntzoff  hovered  be- 
fore him,  but  she  was  his  mother,  and  a  kitten  with 
])lack  A\hiskers  followed  her,  and  that  kitten  was 
Fenitchka;  but  Pavel  PetroA'itcli  ])resented  him- 
self to  liim  as  a  luige  forest,  with  n\  liicli,  neverthe- 
less, lie  was  com])clle(l  to  tiglit.  I'ioti-  waked  liim 
at  four  o'clock;  lie  immediately  dressed  and  went 
out  with  him. 

It  was  a  splendid,  cool  morning;  tiny,  motley 
cloudlets  hung  like  snipe  in  the  clear,  pale  azure; 
a  fine  dew  was  s])rinklcd  on  the  leaves  and  grass, 
and  glistened  like  siher  on  the  spiders'  webs;  the 

2GG 


lAIIIKKS    AM)   ('IIII,l)in:\ 

moist  dark  earth  st'uiii(.'d  still  to  rilaiii  liir  losx 
traces  of  the  dawn;  the  son^s  ol"  larks  sliowiidi 
down  from  all  ovei-  the  sky.  H;r/,:irofV  walked  to 
the  »^ro\e,  seated  iiimseH'  in  the  shadow  at  Mk  vdiyr 
of  it,  and  only  then  did  lie  re\eal  lo  I'iotr  wlial 
sej-viee  he  e\))eeted  IVom  liini.  Tlic  cducalcd 
laekey  was  friohtened  lo  death;  hut  Ha/arolV 
soothed  him  with  the  assurance  that  he  would  have 
nothino-  to  do  except  stand  at  a  distance  and  look 
on,  and  that  he  was  assuming-  no  resj)onsihility 
whatever.  —  "  And  meanwhile,"  —  he  added.— 
"  tliink  what  an  impoi'tant  part  awaits  thee!  "  — 
Piotr  Hung-  his  hands  a])art,  drop])ed  his  eyes,  and 
leaned  hack,  all  green,  against  a  hii'ch  ti'ee. 

The  road  from  jNIarino  wound  round  the  gro\  e; 
a  light  dust  lay  upon  it,  as  yet  untouched  since  the 
preceding  day  hv  either  wheel  or  loot.  Ha/aroff 
involuntarily  gazed  along  the  road,  plucked  and 
chewed  a  hlade  of  grass,  and  kept  iej)eating  ti» 
himself:  "  What  a  piece  of  stupidity  I  ""  'I'he  ma- 
tutinal chill  made  him  shiver  once  or  twice.  .  .  . 
Piotr  stared  dejectedly  at  him.  hut  lia/arolf  onlx 
"Tinned:  he  was  not  afraid. 

The  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  rang  out  on  the 
road.  .  .  A  ])easant  made  his  appearance  from 
hehind  the  trees.  He  was  dri\ing  two  hohhirti 
horses  in  front  of  him,  and,  as  he  |)assed  Ha/.;iiotV. 
he  looked  at  him  rather  .straTigel\ ,  w  ithont  dolling 
his  cap,  which  ohviously  disconeeilid  Piotr  as  an 
evil    omen.     "Here's    another    fellow     w  h«>    h.is 


FAIIIKKS   AM)  (  IIII.DT^F.X 

risen  early, "^thouglit  Bazjiroff ;  "  l)iil  for  busi- 
ness, at  all  events,  while  we " 

I    think   lie  's  eoiniii«»',  sir,"  whispered  ]*iotr 
suddenly. 

Ba/iiroff  raised  liis  head  and  i)ereeived  Pji\c'l 
Petroviteh.  Clad  in  a  li^ht  eheeked  saek-eoat  and 
snow-\\'hite  trousers,  he  was  walking  briskly  down 
the  road;  under  his  arm  he  carried  a  box  wra])ped 
up  in  green  cloth. 

"  Pardon  nie,  1  seem  to  have  made  you  wait," 
— he  said,  bowing  first  to  Bazaroff  and  then  to 
Piotr,  in  whom  he  at  tliat  moment  respected  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  second.  —  "  I  did  not  wish 
to  rouse  my  valet." 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence,  sir," — replied  Baza- 
roff,— "  we  have  only  just  arrived  ourselves." 

"  Ah!  so  much  the  better!  " — Pavel  Petroviteh 
cast  a  glance  around  him.  — "  There  is  no  one  in 
sight,  no  one  will  interfere " 

"  Let  us  begin." 

"  You  demand  no  fresh  explanations,  I  suj)- 
pose?" 

"  I  do  not." 

"Would  you  like  to  load?" — inquired  Pavel 
Petroviteh,  taking  the  ])istols  from  their  case. 

"  No;  do  you  load,  and  I  will  measure  off  the 
paces.  ]My  feet  are  the  longer,"  — added  Bazaroff 
with  a  sneer.  —  "  One,  two,  three  .  .  .  ." 

"  Evgeny  Vasilievitch,"  —  stammered  Piotr 
with  difficulty    (he  was  shaking  as  tliough  in  a 

2(;s 


FATIIKKS  AM)  C  1 1 1 1 .1  )I{K\ 

fever),  —  "  I  don't  care  what  you  say.  I)iil  I  ;uii  no- 
mg  away." 

"Four  ....  five.  .  .  .  (io,  my  (l<;ii-  fallow. 
go:  thou  luayest  even  stand  behind  a  tree  and  stop 
up  thine  ears,  only  don't  shut  thine  eyes:  and  if 
any  one  falls  run  and  lift  him  up.     Six  .  .  .  seven 

.   .   .  eight "  l^a/aroff   j)aused.-"Js  this 

enough?  "  —  he  said,  addressing  IMvel  Petroviteh; 
— "  or  shall  I  add  a  cou])le  of  paces  nioreC  " 

"  As  you  like," — said  the  latter,  ramming  in 
the  second  bidlet. 

"Well,  let's  add  a  couple  of  paces  more.— 
BazarofF  drew  a  line  on  the  ground  with  the  toe 
of  his  boot.  —  "Here's  the  barrier.  Oh.  by  the 
way:  how  many  paces  is  each  of  us  to  go  IVom  the 
barrier?  That  also  is  an  important  (juestion.  We 
did  not  discuss  that  yesterday.   .' 

"  Ten,  I  suppose,"  —  re])hed  I'avel  Petiunitch, 
handing  Bazaroff  botli  pistols.  "  Be  so  good  as  to 
make  your  choice." 

"  I  will.  But  you  must  achiiit,  Pavel  Petro- 
viteh, tliat  our  (hiel  is  unusual  to  [\\v  \n)\\\[  ol'  al>- 
surdity.    .Inst  look  at  the  face  of  oui-  second!   * 

"You  always  want  to  .jest."  replied  Pa\(I 
Petroviteh.  —  "!  do  not  deny  Ibf  strangtiuss  of 
our  duel,  but  1  considered  it  my  duty  to  warn  you 
that  I  intend  to  figlit  seriously.  .  /  hoii  cnlindciir. 
salut! " 

"Oh!  1  do  not  doultl  lb:il  we  intcixl  b'  «aI<i-- 
minate  eaeli  other:  biil  wliv  not   laiigb  and  com- 


FATHERS  AM)  ClULDREX 

bine  utile  dulci?     So  l)e  it:  you   talk  to  me  in 
French,  and  1  '11  talk  to  you  in  Latin." 

1  slv  'I  ti^ht  seriously, '^repeated  Pavel  ]*e- 
trcn  iteli,  and  went  to  his  jjost.  Bazarolf,  on  his 
side,  coiuited  off  ten  paces  from  the  barrier,  and 
halted. 

"  Are  you  ready?  "—asked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

"  Perfect!}'." 

"  We  can  advance." 

Bazaroff  moved  slowly  forward,  and  Pa\el 
Petrovitch  followed  his  example,  thrusting  his 
left  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  gradually  raising 
the  barrel  of  his  pistol.  ..."  He  is  aiming- 
straight  at  my  nose," — thoughl:  Bazaroif ,  "  and 
how  carefully  lie  is  narrowing  his  eyelids,  the 
bandit!  But  this  is  an  unjjleasant  sensation;  I 
will  look  at  his  watch-chain.  .  .  ."  Something 
whizzed  sharply  close  to  Bazaroif's  ear,  and  at 
that  moment  tlie  sound  of  a  shot  rang  out.  — "  I 
heard  it,  conse(]uently  I  'm  all  right,"  flashed 
through  his  head.  He  advanced  another  step, 
and,  without  taking  aim,  pressed  the  trigger. 

Pavel  Peti-ovitch  gave  a  slight  stai"t  and 
clapped  his  hand  to  his  hip.  —  A  stream  of  bk^od 
flowed  down  his  white  trousers. 

liazarofl'  Hung  aside  his  pistol  and  ap- 
proached his  adversary.  — "  Vou  are  wounded?" 
— he  said. 

"  Vou  had  the  j-ighl  to  call  iiic  to  the  bai"- 
rier," — returned  Pavel  Petn'n  itch:  -  "  but  that  is 

270 


IWrilKKS   AM)  (  IIII,1)KK.\ 

a  mere  trilie.     Accoidiii^'  lo  Ur-  agrcciiKiit,  cacli 
of  us  has  another  shot." 

"  AVell,  exeuse  nie,  that  will  do  I'oi-  ariotlici- 
time,"  — re])lie(l  Ha/aroff',  and  caught  Paxil  1\- 
troviteh,  who  was  })eginnin^-  to  turn  pale  in  his 
arms.  — "  I  'ni  not  a  duellist  now.  hut  .1  doctoi-; 
and,  Hrst  of  all,  I  must  ins])eet  your  wound. 
Pioti"!  eome  here,  Piotr!  where  art  thou  hidin;^ 
thyself?  " 

"  All  this  is  nonsense.  ...  1  need  assist anct 
from  no  one,"  —  faltered  Pavel  I'etnn  itch. 
"and  .  .  .  we  nuist  .  .  .  tire  .  .  a<4aiii.  .  ."' 
He  tried  to  twirl  his  moustaehe.  I)ut  liis  hand 
weakened,  his  eyes  rolled  up,  and  hf  lost  con- 
sciousness. 

"  Here  's  a  pretty  state  of  thin<^s!  A  swoon  I 
What's  the  cause  of  this!  "  —  involuntarily  ex- 
claimed Bazaroff,  as  he  laid  Pavel  Pet r(')\  itch 
dow^n  on  the  grass.  —  "  Let's  see  what  soit  of  ;i 
performance  this  is."  — He  pulled  out  his  l)ainl- 
kercliief,  wiped  away  the  hlood.  and  It  ll  ol'  !lic 
wound.  .  .  .  "  The  hone  is  uninjured,"  he  mut- 
tered hetween  liis  teeth,  —  ""  the  hullet  passed 
through  not  far  helow  the  skin:  one  luuscle.  the 
vastus  iwternus,  is  hurt.  He  can  danct.  it'  Ik 
likes,  three  weeks  hence!  .  .  .  Hut  a  swoon!  ( )kh. 
these    nervous    people!     Just    see    how     Ihm    his 

skin  is!  " 

"  Is  he  killed?  "  —  rustled  I'iotr's  (piaking  voice 

hehind  his  })aek. 

271 


FA'^1IK1^S   AM)  ('TIlM)Ki:X 

Bazarott'  giaiiced  rouiul.  — "  Run  for  water  as 
quickly  as  possible,  my  p^ood  fello\\'.  and  lie  will 
outlive  you  and  nie." 

Hut  the  perfected  servant  appeared  not  to  un- 
derstand his  words,  and  did  not  stir  from  the  spot. 
I'avel  I'etrovitch  slowlv  oi)ene(l  his  eves.  "  He  is 
dying!  "  whispered  Piotr,  and  began  to  cross  him- 
self. -  . 

"  You  are  right.  .  .  What  a  stupid  ]:>hysiog- 
nomy!  "  —  said  the  wounded  gentleman,  with  a 
forced  smile. 

"Come,  now,  run  for  water,  you  devil!"  — 
shouted  Bazaroff. 

"  It  is  not  necessarv.  .  .  It  was  only  a  momen- 
tary  vcrtigr.  .  .  .  Help  me  to  sit  up  .  .  .  there, 
that  's  it.  .  .  .  All  that  is  needed  is  to  bind  up 
this  scratch  with  something,  and  then  I  will  walk 
liome,  or  a  drozhky  can  be  sent  for  me.  The  duel 
need  not  be  renewed,  if  that  suits  you.  A^ou  have 
behaved  noblv  ....  to-dav — to-day,  prav  ob- 
serve." 

"  It  is  not  worth  while  to  revert  to  the  past," — 
returned  Bazaroff,  — "  and  as  for  the  future,  it  is 
not  worth  while  to  bother  our  heads  about  that 
either,  because  I  intend  to  decamj)  without  delay. 
Xow  let  me  bandage  your  leg;  your  wound  is  not 
dangerous,  but  it  will  be  better,  in  any  case,  to 
stop  the  flow  of  lilood.  But  first  it  is  indispen- 
sable that  this  moi-tal  should  be  brought  to  con- 


sciousness." 


272 


FATHERS  AM)  CIIIIJ)in<:\ 

Eazarott'  shook  I'iotr  by  tlic  collar  and  st:it  liini 
for  a  (Iro/hky. 

"  See  to  it  that  thou  dost  not  alarm  din  Imo- 
thcr,"— Pavel  Petroviteli  said  to  him.  —  "  Doiit 
dare  to  announce  it  to  liini." 

Piotr  flew  off  at  headlong  sj)cc(l;  and  wjiik-  he 
was  running  for  the  (h'ozhky  the  two  adversaries 
sat  on  tlie  ground  and  held  their  |)eaee.  P;i\(l 
Petroviteli  tried  not  to  look  at  Eazaroll";  nevertln  - 
less,  he  was  not  willing  to  be  reconciled  to  him: 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  own  arrogance,  ol'  his  lack 
of  success:  he  was  ashamed  of  this  whole  affair 
whicli  he  had  instigated,  although  he  also  felt  that 
it  could  not  have  ended  in  a  more  favourable  man- 
ner. "  He  will  not  liang  on  here  any  longer,  at 
all  events," — he  soothed  liiinself :  — "  and  I'oi-  that. 
thanks."  The  silence  continued,  awkward  and 
oppressive.  Neither  of  them  was  comfortable'. 
Each  of  them  recognised  the  fact  that  the  other 
uwderstood  him.  This  consciousness  is  agreeable 
to  friends  and  extremely  (lisagreeal)le  to  enemi(  s. 
esj)ecially  when  it  is  impossible  for  them  eithi  i-  to 
explain  themselves  or  to  separate. 

"  Haven't  I  bandaged  your  leg  too  tightly  f  " 
—  asked  BazarofF  at  last. 

"No,  never  mind,  it  is  \ery  well  done."     re- 
plied Pavel  Petroviteli,  and  after  a  brief  |)ausc, 
he  added:  —  "  it  will  not  be  ])ossible  to  deceive  my 
brother;  we  shall  have  to  tell  him  that  we  (|nar 
relied  over  politics." 


FxVTIlKKS  AND  ClIILDHEX 

"  Very  good,"  —  said  Bazaroff.  —  "  You  can  say 
tliat  I  abused  all  angloniaiiiacs." 

"  Capital.  What  do  you  suppose  that  man  is 
thinking  about  us  now?  " — went  on  Pavel  Petro- 
viteh,  pointing  at  that  same  peasant  who,  a  few 
minutes  previous  to  the  duel,  had  driven  past  15a- 
ziiroff  the  hobbled  horses,  and  on  ]-eturning  along 
the  road  had  "'  turned  out,"  and  had  pulled  off 
his  cap  at  the  sight  of  "  the  gentry." 

"  Who  knows!  "  —  replied  Bazaroff :  —  "  the 
most  likely  thing  of  all  is  that  he  thinks  nothing. 
—  The  Russian  peasant  is  that  same  mysterious 
stranger  of  whom  ]Mrs.  RadclifFe  used  to  prate 
so  much.  AVho  can  understand  him?  He  does 
not  understand  himself." 

"Ah!  There  you  go  again!  "  —  Pavel  Petry- 
vitch  was  beginning,  then  suddenly  exclaimed:  — 
"  See  what  our  fool  of  a  Piotr  has  done!  There  s 
my  brother  galloping  hither!  " 

]5azar()ff  turned  round  and  perceived  the  ])ale 
face  of  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  who  was  seated  in  the 
drozhky.  He  sprang  out  before  it  came  to  a  halt 
and  flew  to  his  brotlier.  — "  \Miat  's  tlie  meaning 
of  Ibis?"  —  he  said  in  an  agitated  ^'()ice:  — 
*'  Kvgenv  A'asiliteh,  for  heaven's  sake,  ^^■hat  is 
this?" 

"  Xever  mind,"— replied  Pavel  Petrovitch:  — 
"  tliere  was  no  necessity  foi-  dis([uieting  yon.  M  r. 
Bazjiroff  and  I  hnw  had  a  little  quarrel,  and  1 
have  paid  for  it  a  bit." 

274. 


FATIIKKS   AM)  C  I1II.I)|{KN 
"  Hut  I'oi-  Cidd's  sake,  wiial  was  the  (•;iiis(   (tf  ;ill 
this?" 

"  How  can  I  cxjilain  it  to  tlicrf  lia/aintV  ex- 
pressed liiiiiself  (lisresi)ec-truliy  ahoiil  Sii-  Koln-rt 
l^eel.  I  hasten  to  add  that  1  alone  am  l(»  hlanic 
i'ov  all  this,  and  Mr.  Ha/arof!'  has  Ix  lia\cd  cxccl- 
lentlv.     1  challen<>ed  hini." 

"  Bnt  thou  ai-t  hieedino-,  oood  ui-aeious!  " 
"  iVnd  didst  thou  suj)i)ose  that  I  had  watei-  in 
my  veins?  ]^ut  this  hloodlcttin^'  is  i-eally  ad\an- 
+ageous  for  me.  Is  n't  that  so.  doctor:'  I  Idp  nic 
to  get  into  the  drozliky,  and  don't  yield  to  melan- 
choly. To-morrow  I  shall  he  well,  'riicir,  that  s 
rio'ht;  very  good  indeed.  I)i-i\e  on,  coachman." 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  walked  after  the  diozhky. 

Bazaroff*  made  a  motion  to  remain  hehind 

"  I  must  request  you  to  attend  to  my  hi-otlur.  " 
— Xikolai  Petrovitch  said  to  him,  —  "  until  we  get 
another  physician  from  the  tow  n." 
Bazaroff  ])owed  in  silence. 

An  houi-  later  l^avel  IVtrovitch  was  lying  in 
hed,  with  his  leg  skilfully  handaged.  The  whole 
hou.se  was  in  a  commotion:  Penitchka  swooned. 
Nikolai  Petrovitch  (piietly  wi-ung  his  hands,  hut 
Pavel  Petrovitch  laughed  and  jested.  esi)ecially 
with  Bazaroff;  he  had  donned  a  fine  hatiste  shirt, 
a  dandified  morning  /jacket,  and  a  le/ ;  lu  would 
not  allow  them  to  draw  down  tlu  sliades  at  the 
windows,  and  lamented  amusingly  ahoiit  the 
necessity  of  ahstaining  (Vom  food. 

•27.3 


FAIITKirs   AM)  ('TTTT.l)KKy 

But  toward  nightfall,  he  became  feverish;  his 
head  l)egan  to  ache.  The  doctor  from  the  town 
made  liis  a])])earance.  (Nikolai  Petrovitcli  had 
not  obeyed  liis  brotlier,  and  l^a/jiroff  liimself  liad 
not  wished  it:  he  had  sat  in  liis  own  room  all  day 
long,  all  sallow  and  cross,  and  had  only  run  in  to 
see  the  invalid  for  the  very  briefest  space;  twice 
he  had  chanced  to  encounter  Fenitchka,  but  she 
had  jimiped  away  from  him  in  horror.)  The  new 
doctor  advised  cooling  beverages,  but  otherwise 
confirmed  BazarofF's  assertions  that  no  danger 
was  to  be  apprehended.  Xikolai  Petrovitcli  told 
him  that  his  brother  had  wounded  himself  through 
heedlessness,  to  which  the  doctor  replied:  "H'm!" 
— but  on  receiving  upon  the  spot  twenty-five 
rubles,  silver,  in  hand,  he  said:  "You  don't  say 
so!  that  often  happens,  really." 

No  one  in  the  house  went  to  bed  or  mulressed. 
Xikolai  Petrovitcli  kept  stealing  into  his  brother's 
room  on  tiptoe  and  stealing  out  again  on  tiptoe: 
the  latter  dozed,  groaned  softly,  said  to  him  in 
French:  ''Couchez-vous/'—and  asked  for  a  drink. 
Once  Xikolai  Petrovitch  made  Fenitchka  bring 
him  a  glass  of  lemonade;  Pavel  Petrovitch  re- 
garded her  intently,  and  drank  the  glass  to  the 
bottom.  Toward  morning  the  fever  increased 
somewhat,  a  slight  delirium  made  its  appearance. 
At  first  Pavel  Petrovitch  uttered  incoherent 
M'ords;  then  he  suddenly  o])ened  his  eyes,  and  per- 
ceiving his  b>-other  at  his  bedside  bending  anx- 

276 


FATIIKKS    AM)   (  IIII.DliKX 

iously  over  liiiu,  lie  said:  "  l'\'iiilclika  lia>  .m)|ii.  - 
tiling'  ill  coninion  with  Xcllv .  lias  n't  slic, 
Nikolai  r' 

"  Witli  what  Nelly,  IVisha^' 

"  IIow^  canst  thou  ask  :■  With  Princess  U.  .  .  . 
Especially  in  the  upper  j)art  of  the  lace.  ( "est  dc 
la  meiiie  fa  in  ill  c." 

Nikolai  I'etroviteh  made  mo  reply,  hut  mar- 
velled within  himself  at  the  vitality  <>!'  old  feelings 
in  a  man.  "  It  's  coming'  to  the  surface,"  he 
thought. 

"  Akh,  how  1  love  that  vain  creature!"  — 
moaned  Pavel  Petrovitch,  sadly  Hinging  his  arms 
ahove  his  head.  —  "  I  cannot  enduic  it  w  luii  some 
audacious  fellow  dares  to  touch  .  .  .  ."*  he  stam- 
mered a  few  moments  later. 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  merely  sighed:  he  did  not 
suspect  to  whom  those  words  applied. 

BazaroiF  presented  himself  to  him  at  tight 
o'clock  on  the  following  morning.  lie  had 
already  managed  to  ])ack,  and  to  set  at  lihirly 
all  his  fi'ogs,  insects,  and  hii'ds. 

"You  have  come  to  hid  me  faicw  ill  T'  said 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  rising  to  greet  him. 

"  Exactly  .so,  sir." 

"I  understand  you.  and  1  lullv  approvi-  of 
your  cour.se.  ^ly  poor  hiothcr.  of  course,  is  to 
blame:  and  he  has  heen  punished.  lie  told  uie 
hinjself  that  he  had  placed  you  in  such  ;i  position 
that  it  was  imi)ossil)ie  ("or  \ou  to  reCuse.     1  hehe\c 

•J77 


1  ATHEKS  AM)  CHILDKEX 

that  vou  could  not  have  avoided  this  duel,  which 
.  .  .  which,  to  a  certain  extent,  is  accounted  for 
nierelv  hv  the  constant  antagonism  of  vour 
mutual  views."  (Nikolai  Petrovitch  had  got  en- 
tangled in  his  words.)  "  ^Jy  brother  is  a  man  of 
the  old  stamp,  irascible  and  morose.  .  .  .  Thank 
God  that  it  has  ended  thus.  I  have  taken  all  nec- 
essary measures  to  avoid  publicity.  ..." 

"  I  will  leave  you  my  address,  in  case  any  un- 
pleasantness  arises,"— remarKeci  Bazaroff  care- 
lessly. 

"  I  hope  that  no  unpleasantness  will  arise, 
Evgeny  Vasilitch.  ...  I  am  very  sorry  that 
your  sojomii  in  my  house  should  have  had  such 
.  .  .  such  an  ending.  I  am  the  moi-e  distressed 
because  Arkady " 

"  I  shall  certainly  see  him  again,"  —  returned 
BazarofF,  in  whom  every  sort  of  "  explanation  " 
and  "  declaration  "  always  aroused  a  sentiment  of 
impatience;  — "  if  I  do  not,  I  beg  that  you  will 
give  him  my  regards  and  accept  the  expression  of 
my  regret." 

"  And  1  beg  .  .  .  '  replied  Nikolai  Petrovitch, 
with  a  bow.  But  Ba/aroff  did  not  await  the  end 
of  his  phrase,  and  left  the  room. 

On  hearing  tliat  Bazaroif  was  about  to  depart, 
l*avel  Petrovitcli  ex])ressed  a  wish  to  see  him  and 
to  shake  hands  with  him.  But  here  also  Bazaroff 
^•"mained  as  cold  as  ice;  he  comprehended  that 
Piivel  Petrovitcli  wished  to  appear  magnanimous. 

27Ji 


FATIIKKS    AM)   (  1 1  1  LI  )1{  KN 

He  did  not  succeed  in  bidding  Kcnilclika  --(mkI- 
bye:  he  merely  exehan<4e(l  a  wlancc  with  licr 
through  a  window.  Her  face  seemed  sad  to  him. 
"  She  '11  go  to  destruction  i)robal)ly!  "  he  said  to 
himself.  .  .  .  "Well,  .she'll  extrii-ali  iierseif, 
somehow  or  other!  " 

On  the  other  hand,  Tidtr  was  so  o\c  reome  with 
emotion  that  he  we})t  on  his  shoulder,  mitil  Ha/;i- 
roff'  froze  him  with  the  (juestion:  ""  Was  nt  he 
a  crv-babvf"  while  Dunvasha  was  eomixlUd 
to  flee  to  the  i»"i"ove  to  conceal  her  agitation. 
The  cause  of  all  this  woe  clamhei-ed  into  the 
peasant  cart,  lighted  a  cigar,  and  when,  at  the- 
fourth  verst.  at  a  turn  oi*  the  road,  tlie  Kirsanoll" 
farm,  with  its  new  manor-house,  presented  itself. 
all  spread  out  in  a  line  to  his  eyes  for  the  hist  time. 
he  merely  spat,  and  muttei-ing:  "  Ciiised  stiiek-u|) 
gentry!"  wra])ped  himself  moic  closely  in  his 
cloak. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  soon  improved:  but  he  was 
obliged  to  keep  his  bed  foi-  about  a  wick.  He 
bore  his  captiriti/,  as  he  expres.sed  it.  \\  itii  eonsid- 
erable  patience,  oidy  he  made  a  great  fuss  oxer  his 
toilet,  and  kept  giving  orders  that  they  should 
fumigate  with  eau  de  cologne.  Xikohii  Telio- 
Aitch  read  the  news])apers  to  him:  I'enitehka 
waited  on  him  as  of  yoie.  brought  his  bouillon, 
lemonade,  soft-boiled  eggs,  tea:  but  a  seerd  terror 
took  possession  of  her  every  time  she  entered  his 
chamber.     Pavel     IVtrovilcirs     une\  peeled     W- 

•>7«i 


i  AiIlKK>   AXD   CIIILDREX 

haviour  had  frightened  all  the  jjeople  in  tlie 
house,  and  her  most  of  all;  Prokotitch  alone  re- 
mained mipertiirlx'd,  and  explained  that  the  gen- 
try were  wont,  in  his  time,  to  light  "  only  noble 
srentlemen.  amonor  themselves,  but  loafer  thev 
would  have  ordered  to  be  tlu'ashed  in  the  stables 
for  their  insolence." 

Fenitclika's  conscience  hardly  reproached  her 
at  all:  but  the  thought  of  the  real  cause  of  the 
quarrel  tortiu-ed  her  at  times:  and.  moreover, 
Pavel  Petrovitch  gazed  at  her  m  suoh  a  strange 
wav  ....  in  such  a  wav.  that  even  when  she  had 
her  back  tiu-ned  toward  him  she  felt  his  eyes 
upon  her.  She  grew  thin  from  incessant  inward 
perturbation,  ari'l.  as  is  usual.  I>ecame  prettier 
than  ever. 

One  day — it  happened  in  the  morning.  —  Pavel 
PetroWtch  felt  well,  and  had  transferred  himself 
from  the  bed  to  the  divan,  and  Xikolai  Petrcnitch. 
after  inquiring  alx)ut  liis  health,  had  betaken  liim- 
self  to  the  threshing-Hoor.  Fenitchka  brought  a 
cup  of  tea,  and,  placing  it  on  a  small  table,  was 
on  the  point  of  withdrawing.  Pavel  Petrovitch 
detained  her. 

"  Whither  away  in  such  haste.  Fedosya  Xiko- 
laevna." — he  began: — "have  you  something  to 

dor 

"  Xo.  sir  ...   I  must  \khu'  out  the  tea." 
iJunyasha  can  do  that  without  you:  sit  a  while 
^vith  the  sick  man.     By  tlie  way,  1  must  Iiave  a 
talk  with  you." 


FATIIKKS    AM)    (  nil.DKKX 

Fenitchka  silently  seated  herself  on  tlie  edge 
of  an  arm-chair. 

"  Listen."  — said  Pavel  Petrovitch.  afid  tu^r^ed 
at  his  moustache,  —  "  I  have  long  wished  to  ask 
you  :  you  seem  to  he  afraid  of  me^  " 
1.  sir:  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  you.  You  ne\  e;-  look  at  me,  ju.st  as 
though  your  conscience  were  not  clear." 

Fenitchka  hlushed,  hut  glanced  at  I'avel  Petn'i- 
vitch.  He  struck  her  as  rather  strange,  and  her 
heart  qui\'ered  softly. 

"  Your  conscience  is  clear,  is  n't  it?  "—he  asked 
her. 

"  Why  .should  n't  it  he  clear?  " — she  whispered. 

"As  if  tliere  were  not  cause? — However. 
before  whom  should  you  be  guilty?  Before  me? 
That  is  not  probable.  Before  other  persons  here 
in  the  house?  That  also  is  an  impossibility.  Be- 
fore my  brother,  perchance ?  But  surely  you  lo\e 
him-  " 
•  1  do." 

"  AVith  all  vour  soul,  with  all  vour  iieart?" 

"  I  love  Xikolai  Petrovitch  with  all  my  heart." 

"Really:  Lcx^k  at  me,  Fenitchka"  (he  called 
her  this  for  the  first  time)  .  .  .  .  "  You  know  it 
is  a  great  sin.  to  lie !  "^ 

"  I  am  not  lying.  Pavel  Petrovitch.  If  I  <lid 
not  love  Xikolai  Petrovitch.  I  sliould  iK^t  want  to 
hve  any  longer." 

■*  And  you  would  not  betray  him  for  any  one?  " 

■'  For  whom  should  T  betray  him  ?  ' 

•J  81 


FATHKKS    AND    CIIILDREX 

"As  ii*  tlicrt'  were  no  onel  Why,  for  ex- 
ample, for  that  gentleman  wjio  went  away  from 
lere. 

Fenitchka  rose  to  her  feet.  —  "  ()  Lord,  my 
(i()(l,  Tavel  Petrovitch,  whv  do  yon  torture  n\v( 
What  have  I  done  to  yon!'  How  is  it  possible  to 
talk  like  that^  .  .  .  ." 

"  Fenitehka,"  — said  Pavel  Petrovitch  in  a  mel- 
aneholv  voice,  —  "  von  know  I  saw " 

"  What  did  voii  see,  sir?  " 

"  AVhv,  vonder  ...  in  the  arbour." 

Fenitchka  turned  all  crimson,  to  her  very  hair 
and  hei"  ears.  —  "  And  how  am  I  to  blame  for 
that?  "  —  she  articulated  with  difficulty. 

Pavel  Petrovitch  half  rose.  —  "  You  are  not  to 
blame?    Xo?    Not  in  the  least?  " 

"  I  love  no  one  in  the  world  but  Nikolai  Petro- 
vitch, and  I  shall  love  him  forever!  "  —  said 
Fenitchka,  Avith  sudden  force,  while  sobs  swelled 
her  throat.  "  And  as  for  what  you  saw,  1  shall 
say,  at  the  Last  Ju(l(>inent,  that  I  am  not  and  was 
not  to  blame  for  that :  and  I  would  rather  die  at 
once,  if  I  am  to  be  suspected  of  such  a  thino-,  as 

that toward     my     benefactor     Nikolai 

Petrovitch.   ...   I   ...   ." 

But  here  her  voice  failed  her,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  she  felt  Pavel  Petrovitch  grasp  and  squeeze 
her  hand.  .  .  .  She  looked  at  him  and  was  fairly 
petrified.  He  had  become  more  pallid  than  l)e- 
forc;  his  eves  were  shining,  and,  what  was  most 

282 


FATIIKKS   AM)   C  IllLDHKN 

wonderful  ol'  all,  a  hcavv,  isolatcil  Uar  was  i«»lliii<: 
down  liis  check. 

"  Fcnitchka!  "  —  he  said,  in  a  (|ucci- sort  of  wiiis- 
I^er:— ''  loxc,  Ionc  my  Di-otlurl  Ih-  is  sucli  a  UiimI. 
tj'ood  man!  Do  not  l»rlra\-  liiin  lor  anv  one  in  tlic 
world, do  not  listen  to  anybody's  speeches  I  'riiink. 
what  can  be  more  dreadful  tliaii  to  lo\  e  and  not  be 
beloved!     Never  abandon  my  |)oor  Xikohii!" 

Fenitchka's  eyes  grew  dry,  and  Ikt  tcn-or 
passed  off, — so  great  was  her  ama/ennnt.  Hut 
what  was  her  state  of  mind  avIuii  IMm  1  IVtio- 
vitch — Pavei  Petrovitch  himsell' — j)resscd  brr 
hand  to  his  lips,  and  fairly  hung  ovvv  it.  not 
kissing  it,  and  onlv  sighing  from  time  to  time  ii. 
a  convulsive  manner.   .   .   . 

"  ()  Lord,"  — she  thought,  — "  can  it  br  Hint  Im 
has  a  fit?  .  .  ." 

But  at  that  moment  his  whole  ruined  blV  was 
throbbing  within  him. 

The  staii's  creaked  under  swift  footsteps.  .  .  . 
lie  thrust  her  nway  j'roni  him,  and  tbi-i\\  his  brad 
back  on  his  |)illow.  Tlic  dooi-  opened,  .in<l 
Nikolai  I'etrovitcb  made  liis  ;i|)pe;nanee.  merry, 
fresh,  rosy-cheeked.  Mitya.  as  fresh  and  rosy  as 
his  father,  clad  onl\  in  bis  little  shirt,  was  .jnnip- 
in<>-  about  on  bis  breast.  clutcliinL^-  witli  bis  lilll<- 
bare  feet  at  the  big  buttons  of  his  rustic  coat. 

Fcnitchka  fairly  Hew  to  bim.  and  Ibrowing  her 
arms  around  botb  bim  and  ber  son.  (hopped  ber 
head  on  his  shoulder.     Nikolai  IV  tro\  itch  was  as- 


FATHERS  xVXD  CIIILDKEX 

tonished;  Fenitchka,  reserved  and  modest,  had 
never  caressed  him  In  the  presence  of  a  tliird 
person. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  thee?  " — he  said,  and 
glancing  at  his  brother,  he  transferred  ^Nlitya  to 
her.  —  "Thou  dost  not  feel  worse?" — he  asked, 
approaching  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

The  latter  had  buried  his  face  in  a  batiste  hand- 
kerchief.— "  Xo  ...  it     is     just never 

mind On  the  contrary,  I  am  much  better." 

"  Thou  wert  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  get  to 
the  divan.  Whither  art  thou  going?"  —  added 
Nikolai  Petrovitch,  turning  to  Fenitchka ;  but  she 
had  already  banged  the  door  behind  her.  —  "  I  had 
brought  my  sturdy  young  ^^•arrior  to  show  tliee; 
he  was  longing  for  his  uncle.  AVhy  has  she  taken 
him  away?  But  what  ails  thee?  Has  anything 
happened  between  you  two?" 

"  Brother!  " — said  Pavel  Petrovitch  solemnly. 

X^ikolai  Petrovitch  (juaked.  Dread  fell  u])on 
him — he  himself  did  not  know  why. 

"  Brother,"  —  repeated  Pavel  Petrovitch, — 
"  give  me  thy  word  to  fulfil  my  request." 

"  What  request?     Speak." 

"  It  is  very  important :  in  my  opinion,  the  entire 
happiness  of  thy  life  depends  upon  it.  All  this 
time  I  have  been  meditating  a  great  deal  about 
what  I  am  now  going  to  say  to  thee.  .  .  .  Bro- 
ther, fulfil  tliy  duty,  the  duty  of  an  honest  and 
noble  man;  put  an  end  to  the  scandal  and  bad 

284. 


FA'I'IIKHS    AM)   (  IIII.DKKX 

example   wliidi    is   caused    hy    Hue,    tin-    hcst    of 
men! 

"  What  is  it  thou  mcaiicsl  to  say,  l*a\tl'  " 

"  Marry  Feuitclika.  .  .  .  She  loves  thee.  She 
is  the  mother  of  thy  son." 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  relreated  a  [)aee  and  (•las|>Kl 
his  hands.  —  "Is  it  thou  who  sayest  tliis.  Pavel.' 
— thou  whom  1  have  always  regarded  as  the  most 
inexorable  antagonist  of  sueh  marriages!  Thou 
saj^e.st  this!  But  can  it  he  that  tliou  dost  not 
know  that  it  was  solely  out  of  respeet  for  tlue 
that  I  have  not  fulfilled  that  wliieli  thon  li.ist 
rightly  designated  as  my  dutyT" 

"  It  was  a  mistake  for  thee  to  respect  me  in  this 
instance,"  — returned  Pavel  Petrovitch  witli  a  mel- 
ancholy smile.  —  "  I  am  beginning  to  think  that 
Bazaroff  was  right  when  he  re})roached  me  witii 
being  aristocratic.  No,  mv  dear  brother,  it  is  time 
for  us  to  cease  putting  on  airs,  and  think  of  the 
world:  we  are  already  old  and  peaceable  men;  it 
is  time  for  us  to  lav  aside  all  vanity.  Wv  will,  as 
thou  sayest,  fulfil  our  duty,  and,  lo,  we  shall  also 
receive  happiness  into  the  bargain." 

Nikolai  Petrovitch  fiew  to  embrace  his  brother. 

"Thou  hast  finally  opened  my  eyes!  "-he 
cried.  —  "  Not  in  vain  have  T  always  maintained 
that  thou  art  the  kindest  and  wisest  man  in  the 
world;  but  now  I  see  that  thou  art  as  sagacious  as 
thou  art  magnanimous." 

"Softly,     softly,"-Pave!     Petrovitch     inter- 

•28.') 


FATHKHS   AND  CIIILUHKN 

rupted  him.  —  "Do  not  irritate  the  leg  of  thy 
sagacious  brother,  who,  at  the  age  of  fifty,  has 
fought  a  duel  like  an  ensign.  So  that  affair  is 
settled:  Fenitchka  is  to  be  my  ....  helle-soeur." 

"  JNIv  dear  Pavel !  But  what  will  Arkadv  sav?  " 

"  Arkady^  He  will  go  into  raptures,  take  my 
word  for  it!  Marriage  is  not  among  his  prinei' 
pies,  but  the  sentiment  of  equality  in  him  will  be 
flattered.  ^Vnd,  in  fact,  what  are  castes  an  d'hv- 
neuviemc  s-iecle?  " 

"  Akh,  Pavel,  Pavel!  let  me  kiss  thee  again. 
Don't  be  afraid,  1  will  be  cautious." 

The  brothers  embraced. 

"  What  dost  thou  think, — would  it  not  be  vrell 
for  thee  to  announce  thine  intention  to  her  at 
once?  "  —  asked  Pavel  Petrovitch. 

"What  need  is  there  of  haste?  "  —  returned 
Nikolai  Petrovitch.  —  "  Did  you  discuss  it?  " 

"  Did  we  discuss  it?    Quelle  idee!  " 

"  Well,  very  good.  First  of  all,  get  well,  and 
that  will  not  escape  us;  we  must  think  it  over 
thoroughly,  consider    .   .   .   ." 

"  But  I  thought  thou  hadst  made  up  thy 
mind?  " 

"  Of  course  1  have;  and  I  thank  thee  from  my 
sold.  Xow  I  \vill  leave  thee;  thou  must  rest;  all 
agitation  is  injurious  to  thee.  .  .  .  l^ut  we  will 
discuss  it  again,  (io  to  sleep,  my  dear  soul,  and 
(xod  give  thee  health!  " 

"  A^'hy  does  he  thank  me  so^  "  thought  Pavel 

286 


FATIIKUS   AM)   CIIILDKKX 

Petrovitcli,  when  he  was  Icl't  aloiu-.  "  As  if  it  did 
not  depend  on  him!  ^^Vnd  I.  as  soon  as  li<-  is  iiiai- 
ried,  will  go  away  somewhere,  as  lar  as  possihie, 
to  Dresden  or  Florenee,  and  I  will  li\c  there  until 
I  die." 

Pavel  Petroviteh  moistened  his  hrow  with  can 
de  cologne,  and  closed  his  eyes,  jlluminated  h\ 
the  hrilliant  daylight,  his  handsome,  emaciated 
head  lay  on  the  white  pillow  like  the  head  of  a 
corpse.   .   .  xVnd  he  was  a  corpse. 


287 


XXV 

At  Nikolskoe,  in  the  garden,  under  the  shadow  of 
a  lofty  ash-tree,  Katya  and  Arkady  were  sitting 
on  a  turf  bench;  on  the  ground  beside  them  Fifi 
had  estabhshed  himself,  imparting  to  his  long- 
body  that  elegant  curve  which  is  known  to  sports- 
men as  "  the  grey-hare  pose."  Both  Arkady  and 
Katya  were  silent;  he  held  in  his  hands  a  half- 
opened  })ook,  while  she  was  collecting  from  a 
basket  the  crumbs  of  white  bread  A\liich  still  re- 
mained in  it,  and  tossing  them  to  a  small  family 
of  sparrows,  which,  with  the  pusillanimous  au- 
dacity peculiar  to  their  kind,  were  hopping  and 
chir})ing  around  her  very  feet.  A  faint  breeze, 
rustling  the  leaves  of  the  ash,  shifted  softly  to  and 
fro  along  the  dark  path  and  Fifi's  yellow  back, 
pale-golden  ])atches  of  light;  a  level  shade  encom- 
passed Arkady  and  Katya;  only  from  time  to 
time  did  a  brilhant  streak  kindle  in  lier  hair. 
Both  maintained  silence;  but  precisely  tlie  manner 
in  wliich  tlicy  were  silent,  in  wliich  they  sat  side 
by  side.  cxj)resscd  trusting  intimacy:  neither  of 
them  seemed  to  hv  tliinking  of  liis  neighbour,  yet 
each  was  secretly  glad  of  the  other's  |)roximity. 
Their  faces  also  Jiave  undergone  a  change  since 

288 


FA  rill^HS    AM)   (  Illl.DHKN 

we  last  l)t'hL'l(l  IIriii:  iVrkady  seems  more  eom- 
jKised,  K.'itvM  more  Miiimated,  more  self-jxis- 
sessed. 

"Don"!  you  lliiuk."  beoan  Ai"k;i(ly.  '  tli.-il 
llic  asli-ti'ee  l)eai's  a  \ci"y  a|)j)i"o|)riat<'  name  in 
liussiau:  '  Jio  otliei'  tree  |)ii'rc(s  llic  ali'  so  li^lilK 
and  clearly  as  it  does." 

Katya  raised  her  eyes  aloi't,  and  said,  "  Ves," 
and  Arktidy  tliouolit:  " 'IMiis  one  does  not  it- 
])r()aeli    me   for   expressing'    myself    in    jinc   hiii- 

^uage." 

"  T  don't  like  Heine,"  — he^an  Katya,  indieat- 
inii'  witli  her  eves  tlie  book  wliieli  Ark;i(i\'  iield  in 
liis  liands:  — "  eitlier  wlien  he  laughs  or  when  he 
weeps;  I  love  him  when  lie  is  tlion^iitrnl  and 
sad." 

"But  he  pleases  nie  when  he  lannhs,"  re- 
marked Arkady. 

"  Those  are  the  old  traees  in  you  of  xour  satiri- 
eal  tendency.  .  ."("Old  traces!"-  tlioui^ht  Ar- 
|^/iay;_'if  IJa/aroff  were  to  hear  that!") 
"  AVait,  we  will  makt'  yon  o\  er." 

"  Who  will  inake  me  over^     Wm'.  " 

"  Who?— my  sister:  Torfiry  Platono\  itch, 
with  whom  you  no  lon«ier  (luarrei":  aunty,  wiiom 
you  escorted  to  church  the  day  het'ore  yestei-day. 

"  I  could  n't  refuse!  And  as  foi-  Ann;.  .Ser^ryr- 
evna,  she  herself,  you  rememh.r.  allied  with 
Evffcnv  on  manv  ])oints." 

1   -ir  it      1    1-.  „  '     ,/».c.i,.    "rlrar'v  '       'I'n  \ "di  *TnR. 

'  Yasei),      asli  r~r";     jn-ii"',      i  icnr  .. 


FATTTKKS   AM)  C  TTIl.DREX 


JNly  sister  was  under  his  influence  then,  just 
as  you  were." 

"  Just  as  I  was?  Do  you  mean  to  sav  that  you 
iiotice  that  I  liave  ah'eady  freed  myself  from  his 
influence?  " 

Kiitya  made  no  reply. 

"  I  know," — pursued  Arkady,—"  that  you 
never  did  like  him." 

"  I  cannot  judge  of  him." 

"  Do  you  know  wliat,  Katerina  Sergyeevna? 
Every  time  I  hear  that  answer  I  do  not  helieve 
in  it.  .  .  .  There  is  no  man  as  to  whom  any  one 
of  us  cannot  pronounce  judgment!  That  is  sim- 
ply an  evasion." 

"  Well,  then  I  will  tell  you  that  I  ....  do  not 
exactly  dislike  him,  but  I  feel  tliat  lie  is  a  stranger 
to  me,  and  I  have  nothing  in  common  with  him 
and  neither  have  you."    - 

"Why  so?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  you?  .  .  .  He  is  a  bird  of 
prey,  while  you  and  I  are  tame." 

"  And  am  I  tame  also?  " 

Katya  nodded. 

Arkady  scratclied  behind  his  ear.  — "  See  here, 
Katerina  Sergyeevna,  you  know  that  is  really  in- 
suiting." 

"  Would  you  really  like  to  be  a  bird  of  prey?  " 

"  A  bird  of  prey— no,  but  strong,  energetic." 

"  That  cannot  be  had  by  wisliing.  .  .  Tliere  's 
your  friend — he  does  not  wisli  it,  but  it  is  in  him." 

290 


FATHERS  AM)  CIIILDKKN 

"  H'lii!  So  you  tliink  he  luul  ^rcal  iiilluciicc  on 
Anna  Sergyeevna  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  no  one  can  kec])  Hr-  uppc  t  hand  of 
her  for  long,"  — added  Katya,  in  an  undtitotie. 

"  Why  do  vou  think  tliat  ^  ' 

"  She  is  very  proud.  .  .  .  1  did  not  mean  to  say 
that  ....  she  sets  a  higli  vahie  on  her  indepen- 
dence." 

"And  who  (k)es  not:^"  — asked  Arkady,  and 
througli  his  mind  tliere  Hashed:  "  W'liat  good 
does  it  do  her^  "_'-  W'hat  good  does  it  do  hei'^ "' 
also  flashed  through  Katya's  mind.  AVhen  young 
people  meet  often  on  friendly  terms,  the  same 
thouii'hts  are  constantly  oeeurrino-  to  them. 

Arkady  smiled,  and  moyin<>-  a  little  closer  to 
Katya,  said  in  a  whisper:  — "  Confess  that  yon  are 
a  little  afraid  of  her." 

"Of  whom?" 

"  Of  /zfr/'— repeated  Arkady  signilieantly. 

"And  you?  "^ — questioned  Katya,  in  her  tnin. 

"  And  I  also;  ohserye,  1  say:  (uul  I  dlso." 

Katya  shook  her  tinger  at  him.  -  "  I  am  sur- 
prised,"—she  hegan:  — "  my  sister  has  ne\(i-  !>((  n 
so  favourahly  disj)Osed  toward  >t)ii  as  at  j)rrcis(  ly 
the  present  moment;  much  more  so  Uian  (hiring: 
your  first  yisit." 

"  Here  's  news!  " 

"But   haven't   you    noticed    jt^    Are  nl    \  on 

])leased?  " 

Arkady  niedilaled 

^291 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDHEN 

"  How  have  1  won  Anna  Sergveevna's  good 
will?  ]Miist  it  not  have  been  because  1  brought 
her  your  mother's  letter?  " 

"  For  that  reason,  and  there  are  other  causes> 
which  I  will  not  mention." 

"Why  not?" 

"  1  won't  tell." 

"  Oh!  I  know:  vou  are  verv  stubborn." 
1  am. 

"  And  observing." 

Katya  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  Arkady.— 
"  Perhaps  that  enrages  you  ?  ^Vhat  are  you 
thinking  about?  " 

"  I  am  thinking  where  you  could  have  got  that 
obser\ation  which  you  really  do  possess.  You  are 
so  timorous,  distrustful;  vou  are  afraid  of  everv- 
body.  .   .  ." 

"  I  have  lived  much  alone;  one  begins,  invol- 
untarily, to  think  a  great  deal  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. But  am  I  really  afraid  of  everv- 
body?  " 

Arkady  threw  a  penetrating  glance  at  Katya. 

"  All  this  is  very  fine,"  —  lie  went  on,  — "  but 
people  in  your  p(isition  —  I  mean  to  say,  with 
your  means  —  rarely  possess  that  gilt:  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  tJie  truth  to  make  its  way  to  them,  as  it  is 
to  kings." 

"  But  I  'm  not  rich,  you  know." 

Arkady  w^as  surprised,  and  did  not  al  once  un- 
derstand Kjitya.    "  xVnd,  in  fact,  all  the  property 

292 


FATni^HS    AM)   (  llll.DHIA 

does  belong-  to  her  sister!  "  oeenntd  lo  liis  iiiiii(i: 
this  thouo-ht  was  not  iin|)k'asant  to  him.  —  "  How 
well  you  said  that!  "  he  said. 

"What?" 
You  spoke  well;  siin])ly  willioiil  coiiliisioM  or 
affeetatioii.  15v  the  \\a\-:  1  iiiumiiK  that  llicrc 
must  be  something  peculiar  — a  soil  of  oslcnfa- 
tion  —  in  the  feeling  of  a  person  who  knows  and 
says  that  he  is  poor." 

"  I  have  experienced  nothing  ol' the- sort,  tlianks 
to  my  sister;  T  mentioned  my  ])osilioii  sinij)ly  Im- 
cause  the  words  slipped  of!'  my  iongn( ."" 

"  Exactly.  15ut  confess  that  there  is  in  you  a 
little  bit  of  that  ostentation  of  which  I  just 
spoke." 

"  For  example?  " 

"  For  example,  of  course, — pardon  my  (jues- 
tion, — you  would  not  marry  a  wealthy  man.  " 

"  If  I  loved  him  very  much.  .  .  No,  I  tliink  I 
would  not  marry  him  even  then." 

"Ah!  there,  you  see!  "  —  exclaimed  Aik.idv. 
and,  after  a  brief  ])ause,  he  added:-"  Hut  why 
wouldn't  you  marry  him?" 

"  Because  they  sing  in  the  ballad  about  in- 
equality." 

"  Perhaps  you  want  to  lule.  or  .   .   .   ." 

"Oh,  no!  Why  should  \^  On  the  contrary.  I 
am  ready  to  sulunit:  only  ine(]uality  is  oj)|)ressive. 
"Rut  T  do  understand  res])ecting  oik's  self  and 
submitting;   that   is   happiness:   but    not    an   e\- 

203 


FATIIKKS   AM)  ClllLDHKX 

istence  of  subjugation.  .   .  No,  I  am  satisfied  as 

I?) 
am. 

"  Satisfied  as  you  are,"  —  repeated  Arkady 
after  Katva. — "  Yes,  ves," — he  went  on; — "  it  is 
not  for  nothin"'  that  vou  are  of  one  })lood  witli 
Anna  Sergyeevna:  you  are  as  independent  as 
slie  is;  hut  vou  are  more  seeretive.  I  am  eon- 
vinced  that  on  no  aeeoimt  woidd  you  be  the  first 
to  express  your  feehngs,  no  matter  how  ])owerful 
and  sacred  they  might  be.  .  .  ." 

"  But  liow  eon  hi  it  be  otherwise?  "  —  inquired 
Ivatya. 

"  You  are  equally  clever;  you  have  as  much 
character  as  she  has,  if  not  more.   .  .  ." 

"  Do  not  compare  me  with  my  sister,  please," 

—  interposed  Katya  hurriedly,  —  "  it  is  too  dis- 
advantageous to  me.  You  appear  to  have  for- 
gotten that  my  sister  is  a  beauty  and  a  wit,  and 
.  .  .  you,  in  j)articular,  xVrkjidy  Xikolaiteh, 
ought  not  to  utter  such  words,  and  with  such  a 
serious  countenance  into  the  bargain." 

"  What  does  this  mean,  '  You  in  ])ai-ticular? ' 

—  and  from  what  do  vou  conclude  that  I  am 
jesting?" 

"  Of  course  you  are  jesting." 

"Do  vou  think  sof  Hut  what  if  I  am  con- 
vinced  of  what  I  am  saying?  W'iiat  if  1  am  of 
the  oj)inion  that  I  have  not  even  yet  expressed 
myself  witli  sufficient  force?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

294 


FATITKHS    AM)    ClIII.DinA 

"Keally^     Well,  now   1  sec:   I   irally  liavrcx 
aggerated  your  power  of  oliscrx  ation." 

"Whatr' 

Arkady  made  no  reply  and  turned  away,  wliiK- 
Katya  rummaged  out  a  few  more  eruinhs  in  her 
basket,  and  began  to  toss  tliem  to  the  sparrows: 
but  tbe  sweep  ol  lier  luuid  was  too  vigorous,  antl 
the  birds  flew  away  without  managing  to  |Hck. 

"  Katerina  Sergyeevna!"  began  Aik;id\ 
suddenly:  —  "  it  makes  no  (hfferenee  to  \ on.  jimli- 
ably;  but  you  must  know  that  I  woiiM  not  ex- 
change you  not  only  for  your  sister,  but  lor  any 
one  in  the  world." 

He  rose  and  -walked  swii'tiv  awav,  as  though 
frightened  at  the  words  whieli  liad  dropped  fioin 
his  tongue. 

And  Katya  dropped  l)()th  hei-  hands,  togethn- 
with  the  basket,  on  her  lap,  and  bowing  her  head. 
gazed  after  Arkady.  Little  by  httle,  a  searKt 
flush  faintly  tinged  her  cheeks;  l)iit  her  lips  (hd 
not  smile,  and  her  dark  eyes  expressed  snrj)iise, 
and  some  other,  as  yet  nameless,  feeling. 

"Art  thou  alone?" — Anna  Sergyeevna's 
voice  resounded  near  her.  — "  I  thonght  thou 
hadst  gone  into  the  garden  with  ^Arkady." 

Katya,  without  haste,  turned  her  eyes  on  her 
sister  (elegantly,  even  excjuisitely  attired,  she  was 
standing  on  the  path,  and  tickling  V'\iVs  ears  with 
the  tip  of  her  open  parasol),  and  said,  also  with- 
out haste:—"  1  am  alone." 

21)3 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  I  perceive  that," — replied  the  other,  with  a 
laugh:  — "lie   must   have   gone   off   to   his   own 
room." 
Yes. 

"  Have  you  been  reading  together?  " 

"  Yes."  ^ 

Anna  Sergveevna  took  Katva  l)v  the  cfiin  and 
raised  her  face. 

"  You  have  not  quarrelled,  I  hope?  " 

"  No," — said  Katya,  and  gently  put  aside  her 
sister's  hand. 

"  How  solemnly  thou  answerest !  I  thought  I 
should  find  him  here,  and  would  suggest  to  him 
that  he  take  a  stroll  with  me.  He  is  always  beg- 
ging me  to  do  that.  Thy  shoes  have  been  brought 
from  town;  go  and  tr}^  them  on:  I  noticed 
yesterday  that  those  thou  art  now  wearing- 
are  quite  worn  out.  In  general,  thou  dost  not 
pay  sufficient  attention  to  that  point,  yet 
thou  hast  such  charming  little  feet!  And  thy 
hands  are  good  .  .  .  only  large;  so  thou  must 
captivate  with  the  tiny  feet.  But  thou  art  not  a 
coquette." 

Anna  Sergyeevna  went  her  way  along  the 
path,  her  handsome  gown  rustling  faintly; 
Katya  rose  from  the  bench,  and  taking  with  her 
Heine,  went  away  also — only  not  to  try  on  her 
shoes. 

"  Charming  little  feet," — she  thought,  as  she 
walked  slowly  and  lightly  up  the  stone  steps  of 

296 


FATHERS  AM)  (  IIIIJ)KK\ 

the  terrace,  wliieh  were  red-hot  witli  the  sim;  — 
"  charming  little  feet,  you  say.  .  .  .  Well,  Mndlu- 
shall  be  at  them." 

But  she  immediately  i'clt  ashaiiu'd.  .-md  ran 
nimbly  up-stairs. 

Arkady  walked  along  the  eorrid(.r  to  iiis  room: 
the  butler  overtook  him,  and  annonnccd  that  Mr. 
BazaroiF  ^vas  sitting  in  his  chamber. 

"Evgeny!  "—muttered  Arkady,  almost  in 
terror. 

"  He  has  just  this  moment  come,  and  gave  or- 
ders that  his  arrival  should  not  be  announced  to 
Anna  Sergyeevna,  and  bade  me  conduct  him 
straight  to  you." 

"  Can  a  catastrophe  have  liappencd  at  our 
house?  "  —  thought  Arkady,  and  running  hastily 
up-stairs  to  his  room,  he  flung  oj)en  the  door. 
BazarofF's  aspect  instantaneously  calmed  him.  al- 
though a  more  experienced  eye  probably  would 
have  detected  in  the  figure  of  the  unex})ected  \  is- 
itor,  energetic  as  of  yore  but  haggard,  the  tokens 
of  inward  agitation.  \Vith  his  dustv  cloak  on  Iiis 
shoulders,  and  his  cap  on  his  head,  he  was  sitting 
on  the  window-sill;  he  did  not  rise,  even  when  Ai- 
kady  flung  himself  upon  his  neck,  with  noisy  e.\- 
chimations. 

"  What  a  surprise!  How  does  it  hajjpen!  "— 
he  kept  re])eating,  as  he  bustled  about  the  room 
like  a  man  who  imagines,  and  is  trying  to  demon- 
.strate,  that  he  is  delighted.  —  "  Everything  is  all 

297 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDHEIN 

right  at  our  house,  of  course;  they  are  all  well, 
are  n't  thev? " 

"  Everything  at  thy  home  is  all  right,  but  all 
are  not  well," — said  Eazaroff.  —  "  But  don't  jab- 
ber; order  them  to  bring  me  some  kvas;  sit  down 
and  listen  to  what  I  will  impart  to  thee  in  a  few, 
but,  1  hope,  fairly  forcible  phrases." 

Arkady  grew  mute,  and  BazarofF  narrated  to 
him  the  story  of  his  duel  with  Pavel  Petrovitch. 
Ai'kady  was  greatly  amazed,  and  even  grieved; 
but  he  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  say  so;  he 
merely  asked  whether  his  uncle's  wound  were 
really  not  dangerous,  and,  on  receiving  the  reply, 
— that  it  was  extremely  interesting,  only  not  in  a 
medical  sense, — he  smiled  in  a  constrained  way, 
and  dread  fell  upon  his  heart,  and  he  felt  some- 
what ashamed.  BazarofF  seemed  to  understand 
him. 

"  Yes,  brother," — he  said,  —  "  that 's  what  it 
means  to  live  with  feudal  lords.  Thou  wilt  fall 
into  feudal  ways,  and  take  part  in  knightly  tour- 
neys. Well,  sir,  so  I  took  myself  off  to  '  the 
fathers,'  "  —  Bazaroff  wound  up,  — "  and  on  the 

way  I  dropped  in  here in  order  to  inform 

thee  of  all  this,  I  would  have  said,  if  1  did  not 
regard  a  useless  lie  as  a  piece  of  stupidity.  No,  I 
dropped  in  here — the  devil  knows  why.  You  see, 
it  is  useful  for  a  man,  once  in  a  ^^'hile,  to  grab 
himself  by  the  topknot  and  ])luck  himself  out,  like 
a  radish  from  a  garden-bed ;  I  performed  that  feat 

298 


FATIIKUS    AND    CIIILDKKX 

recently.  .  .  But  1  wuiited  to  take  iiist  one  more 
look  at  that  from  wliieli  I  had  parted  at  that 
bed  where  I  was  planted." 

"  I  hope  that  these  words  do  not  wWv  to  me."" 
— returned  Arkady,  w  itii  ])erturl)atioii.  "  I  hope 
that  thou  art  not  tliinking  of  j)artiii;4  lioni  ///<." 

Bazaroff  cast  an  intent,  ahnost  pierein/^  ^lanee 
at  him. 

"  Does  that  really  pain  thee  so?  It  strikes  me 
that  thou  hast  already  parted  from  me.    Thou  art 

so  fresh  and  pure thy  affairs  with  Anna 

Sergyeevna  must  he  pro^ressinf**  well." 

"  What  affairs  of  mine  with  Anna  Scr^yr- 
evna  f 

"Why,  didst  not  thou  eome  hither  from  tiu- 
town,  my  chikH  By  the  way,  how  arc  the  Sun- 
day-schools getting  on  there?  i\rt  not  thou  i-nam- 
oured  of  her?  Or  has  the  time  arrived  for  tluc  to 
be  discreet?  " 

"  Evgeny,  thou  knowest  I  have  always  )>een 
frank  with  thee;  I  can  assure  thee,  1  swear  lo  tint-. 
that  thou  art  in  error. "- 

"H'm!  a  new  word,"  — commented  Ha/.iiroff. 
—  "But  there's  no  need  for  thee  to  wax  warm 
over  it,  for  as  thou  seest,  it  is  a  matter  of  i)erfeet 
indifference  to  me.  A  romanticist  would  Ii;ive 
said:  'I  feel  that  our  ))atlis  are  heginning  to 
diverge,'  hut  I  simply  say  that  we  have  got  dis- 
gusted with  each  other." 

"  Evgeny!  .  .  ." 

29& 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREX 


« 


My  dear  soul,  that 's  no  calamity ;  one  gets 
disgusted  with  plent}'  of  things  in  this  world! 
But  now  I  am  thinking  whether  it  is  n't  time  for 
us  to  say  farewell?  Ever  since  I  came  hither  I 
have  felt  most  ahominably,  as  tliougli  I  had  been 
reading  too  much  of  Gogol's  letters  to  the  wife  of 
the  Governor  of  Kaluga.  By  tlie  way,  I  did  not 
order  the  horses  unharnessed." 

"  Upon  my  word,  this  is  impossible!  " 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  myself ;  but  this  will  be 
in  the  highest  degree  discourteous  to  Anna  Ser- 
gyeevna,  who  is  extremely  anxious  to  see  thee." 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  thou  art  mistaken." 

"  On  tlie  contrary,  I  am  convinced  that  I  am 
right," — retorted  Arkady.  —  "  And  why  dost  thou 
dissimulate?  When  it  comes  to  that,  dost  thou 
mean  to  say  that  thou  didst  not  come  hither  on  her 
account  thyself  ? " 

"  Perhaps  that  is  correct,  but  thou  art  mistaken, 
nevertheless." 

But  Arkady  was  right.  Anna  Sergyeevna  did 
^vish  to  see  Bazaroff,  and  sent  him  an  invitation, 
through  the  butler,  to  come  to  her.  Bazaroff 
changed  his  clothes  before  he  went  to  her:  it 
turned  out  that  he  had  packed  his  new  suit  in  such 
a  way  that  it  was  at  hand. 

INIadame  Odintzoff  did  not  receive  him  in  the 
room  where  he  had  so  imexpectedly  made  his  dec- 
laration of  love,  but  ill  the  drawing-room.     She 

300 


FATIIKHS    AM)    CIIII.DKKX 

graciously  offered  him  the  tij).s  of  lier  fiiintis.  ImiI 
her  face  expressed  invohiiitary  conslraiiit. 

"  Anna  Sergyeevna,"  — Bazarotf  made  haste  to 
say,—"  first  of  ;dl,  1  must  reassure  you.  ^'ou  src 
before  you  a  mortal  \\  ho  lias  long  since  recovered 
his  senses,  and  wlio  hopes  tliat  others  also  have 
forgotten  liis  folly.  I  am  going  away  i'or  a  long 
time,  and  you  must  admit  that,  although  I  am  iiol 
a  soft  person,  j-et  it  would  he  far  from  a  cheei  I'lil 
thing  for  me  to  carry  away  the  thought  that  you 
remember  me  with  loathing." 

Anna  Sergyeevna  heaved  a  deej)  sigh,  liki-  a 
person  who  has  just  climbed  to  the  toj)  of  a  lol'ty 
mountain,  and  her  face  became  enlivened  with  a 
smile.  She  offered  her  hand  to  Bazaroff  for  the 
second  time,  and  reciprocated  his  })ressure. 

"  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie. "^she  said,—  ■  the  more 
so  as,  to  speak  candidly,  I  also  sinned  at  that  time 
— if  not  through  coquetry,  by  something  else. 
In  a  word,  let  us  be  friends  as  before.  It  was 
a  dream,  was  it  not?  xVnd  who  remembers 
dreams? " 

"  Who  remembers  them?  And,  moreoNer.  love 
.  .  .  is  an  imaginary  feeling,  you  k?iow." 

"  Really?     I  am  very  glad  to  heai-  it.'' 

Thus  did  Anna  Sergyeevna  express  herself, 
and  thus  did  Bazaroff  ex])ress  himself:  they  both 
thought  that  they  were  s])eaking  the  truth.  Did 
their  words  contain  tlu-  tj-utli.  the  wlioK-  truth' 
Thev  themselves  did  m"I  know .  nnieli  I(  ss  does  the 


FATHERS  AND  CHILUREX 

author.  But  they  entered  upon  the  sort  of  con- 
versation which  seemed  to  indicate  that  they  thor- 
oughly beUeved  each  other. 

Anna  Sergyeevna  asked  BazarofF,  among  other 
things,  what  lie  had  been  doing  at  tlie  Kirsa- 
noffs'.  He  came  near  teUing  her  about  his  duel 
with  Pavel  Petrovitch,  but  restrained  himself  at 
the  reflection  that  she  might  imagine  that  he  was 
trying  to  make  himself  interesting,  and  answered 
her  that  he  had  been  working  all  that  time. 

"  And  I,"— said  Anna  Sergyeevna,—"  first 
moped— God  knows  why;  I  even  prepared  to 
go  abroad;  just  fancy!  ....  Then  it  passed  off, 
your  friend  Arkady  Xikolaitch  arrived,  and  1 
fell  back  into  my  rut,  into  my  genuine  role." 

"  Into  what  role,  permit  me  to  inquire?  " 

"  The  role  of  aunt,  preceptress,  mother,  what- 
ever 3^ou  please  to  call  it.  By  the  way,  do  you 
know,  that  formerly  I  did  not  quite  understand 
your  intimate  friendship  with  Arkady  Nikola- 
itch!  I  considered  him  decidedly  insignificant. 
But  now  I  have  come  to  know  him  better,  and 
have  convinced  myself  that  he  is  clever.  .  .  And 
the  chief  point,  he  is  young,  young  ....  not 
like  you  and  me,  Evgeny  Vasilitch." 

"  Is  he  still  as  timid  as  ever  in  your  presence?  " 
inquired  Bazaroff. 

"  But  is  it  possible "  began  Anna  Ser- 
gyeevna, and,  after  reflecting  a  little,  she  added : 
— "  Now  he  has  become  more  confiding,  he  talks 

302 


FATIIKHS  AM)  C  III  LDHF.X 

with  me.  FornK'rly  Ir- avoided  dk.  II()\v(\(r.  [ 
did  not  seek  his  society.  II(  .md  Katya  aic 
great  friends." 

BazarofF  felt  vexed.  —  "  Il  is  iinpossihlc  for  a 
woman  not  to  l)e  crafty!"  — lie  llioiiolit.  \iH\ 
say  that  lie  avoided  yon,"  lie  articulated,  with  a 
cold  sneer,  — "  hut,  ])rol)ahly,  it  was  no  secret  to 
you  that  he  was  in  love  with  you :'  " 

"AVhat^  lie  too?"— hroke  from  Anna  Ser- 
gyeevna. 

"  He  too,"  — repeated  lia/jiroll'.  with  a  siihniis- 
sive  how.  —  "  Is  it  possihle  that  you  did  not  know 
it,  and  that  1  have  been  tellin<»-  vou  news?  " 

Anna  Sergyeevna  dropped  her  eyes.  —  "  Wm 
are  in  error,  Evgeny  Vasiliteh."' 

"I  think  not.  But  perha])s  I  ought  not  to 
allude  to  that. — And  don't  you  he  sly  lii-ne<- 
forth,"  he  added  to  himself. 

"Why  should  not  you  alhide  to  itC  Jiul  I 
think  that  you  are  ascrihing  too  much  im])ortance 
to  a  momentary  impression.  1  hegin  to  sus|)e('t 
that  you  are  inclined  to  exaggeration." 

"  It  is  hetter  for  us  not  to  talk  ahout  that,  Anna 
Sergyeevna." 

"  Why?  " — she  retorted,  hut  she  herself  turned 
the  conversation  on  another  sul)ject.  Xe\ert he- 
less,  she  felt  awkward  with  Haziiioif.  although 
she  had  told  him,  and  had  assured  herself,  that 
everything  was  forgotten.  As  she  <\elianged 
simple  phra.scs  witii  him,  she  fVlt  the  slight  (t)n- 

303 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDREX 

straint  of  terror.  Thus  do  people  on  a  steamer, 
at  sea,  chat  and  laugh,  care-free,  exactly  as 
though  they  were  on  solid  land:  but  let  the  slight- 
est halt  take  place,  let  the  smallest  sign  of  any- 
thing unusual  present  itscli',  and  instantly  there 
starts  forth  upon  all  countenances  an  expression 
of  peculiar  alarm,  which  })ears  witness  to  the 
constant  consciousness  of  danger. 

Anna  Sergyeevna's  conversation  with  BazarofF 
.did  not  last  long.  She  began  to  grow  thought- 
ful, to  return  abstracted  replies,  and,  at  last,  pro- 
posed to  him  that  they  should  go  into  the  hall, 
where  tlie}^  found  the  Princess  and  Katya.  "  But 
where  is  Arkady  Nikolaevitch?  "  —  inquired  the 
hostess;  and  on  learning  that  he  Jiad  not  shown 
himself  for  more  than  an  hour  past,  she  sent  for 
him.  He  was  not  soon  found:  he  had  ensconced 
himself  in  the  verj^  depths  of  the  garden,  and  with 
his  chin  propped  upon  his  clasped  hands,  he  was 
sitting  absorbed  in  thought.  His  thoughts  were 
profound  and  important,  but  not  sad.  He  knew 
that  Anna  Sergyeevna  was  sitting  alone  with  Ba- 
zaroff,  and  he  felt  no  jealousy,  as  formerly;  on 
the  contrary,  his  face  beamed  gently;  he  seemed 
to  be  surprised  at  something,  and  to  be  rejoicing, 
and  making  up  his  mind  to  something. 


804 


XXVI 

The  deceased  Mv.  Odiiitzoil"  liad  not  liUid  momI- 
ties,  but  he  had  permitted  "  a  eerlaiti  play  of  en- 
nobled taste,"  and,  in  eonsequenee  tlRrcol'.  he  liad 
erected  in  his  garden,  between  the  hot -house  and 
the  pond,  a  buikhng  in  tlic  nature  ol"  a  (ireek 
portico  of  Russian  brick.  In  the  rear,  blind  wall 
of  this  portico,  or  gallery,  six  niches  had  been  lei 
in  for  statues,  which  OdintzofF  liad  intended  to 
import  from  Italy.  These  statues  were  intended 
to  represent  Solitude,  Silence,  Meditation,  Mel- 
ancholy, jNIodesty,  and  Sentiment.  One  of  theni. 
the  Goddess  of  Silence,  with  her  finger  on  her 
lips,  had  been  brought  and  set  in  place:  Iml  that 
veiy  same  day  the  naughty  little  boys  ol"  the 
house-serfs  had  broken  off  her  nose,  and  although 
a  neighbouring  plasterer  had  undertaken  to  at- 
tach a  nose  to  her  "  twice  as  good  as  the  former," 
Odintzoff  had  ordered  her  to  be  taken  away,  and 
she  was  placed  in  a  corner  of  the  threshing-slied, 
where  she  stood  for  long  years,  arousing  the  su- 
perstitious fears  of  the  ])easant  women.  The 
front  side  of  the  ])ortieo  had  long  since  become 
overgrown  with  thick  brushwood:  onl>  tlic  caj)- 
itals  of  the  columns  were  visible  above  tlie  dense 
verdure.     In  the  jjortieo  itself,  even  at  noonday, 

305 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

it  was  cool.  Aiina  Sergyeevna  had  not  been  fond 
of  visiting  this  spot  since  she  had  seen  an  adder 
there,  but  Katya  often  came  to  sit  on  a  big  stone 
bencli  which  had  been  constructed  beneath  one 
of  the  niches.  Surrounded  by  coohiess  and  shade, 
she  read,  worked,  or  surrendered  herself  to  that 
sensation  of  complete  tranquillitj"  which  is  prob- 
ably known  to  everj'-  one,  and  whose  charm  con- 
sists in  a  barely -conscious,  mute  contemplation  of 
the  broad  stream  of  life,  which  incessantly  rolls 
both  around  us  and  in  us. 

On  the  day  following  BazarofF's  arrival,  Katya 
was  sitting  on  her  favourite  bench,  and  beside  her 
again  sat  Arkady.  He  had  begged  her  to  come 
with  him  to  the  "  portico." 

About  an  hour  remained  before  breakfast-time ; 
the  dewy  morning  had  already  changed  into  a 
hot  dav.  Arkady's  countenance  preserved  its  ex- 
pression  of  the  day  before ;  Katya  wore  a  troubled 
aspect.  Her  sister,  immediately  after  tea,  had 
called  her  to  her  in  her  boudoir,  and  having  first 
caressed  her,  which  always  rather  terrified  Katya, 
she  had  advised  her  to  be  cautious  in  her  behaviour 
toward  Arkady,  and,  in  particular,  to  shun  soli- 
tary conversations  with  him,  which,  it  seemed,  had 
been  commented  upon  by  her  aunt,  and  by  all  the 
household.  In  addition  to  this,  on  the  previous 
evening,  Anna  Sergyeevna  had  been  out  of  sorts ; 
and  Katya  herself  had  felt  agitated,  as  though 
she  recognised  that  she  had  done  wrong.  In  yield- 

306 


FATIIKKS  AM)  Cllll,l)in:\ 

ing  to  Arkady's  pk-a,  slic  had  lold  li(rs<ll'  that  il 
was  for  the  last  time. 

"  Katerina  Sergyeevna,"-  he  hc^ao.  with  a 
certain  bashful  ease,  —  "  siiicf  I  lia\r  liad  tht  hap- 
piness of  living  in  your  house,  1  have  talked  on  «  i- 

nianv  things  with  vou,  and  vet  there  is  one 

question  ....  which  is  veiy  iiii|)oitaiit  for  me 
that  I  have  not  yet  touched  uj)on.  \'ou  icmarked 
yesterday  that  1  have  been  made  over  here,'  -lie 
added,  both  seeking  and  avoiding  Kiitya's  gaze, 
fixed  questioningly  u])on  him.  —  "  ^\s  ;i  mattei-  of 
fact,  I  have  undergone  a  change  in  many  resjjeets. 
and  you  know  that  better  than  any  one  else, — 
you,  to  whom,  in  reality,  I  am  indebted  for  this 
change." 

"I?  .  .  .  Tome?  .  .  .  ."said  Katya. 

"  Now  I  am  no  longer  that  arrogant  boy  tliat 
I  was  when  T  came  hither," — pursued  Arkady: 
—  "not  in  vain  have  I  passed  my  twenty-third 
year;  as  before,  I  desire  to  be  of  use,  I  desire 
to  consecrate  all  my  powers  to  the  ti-uth:  l)ut  1 
no  longei-  seek  my  ideals  where  I  formerly 
sought  them;  they  present  themselves  to  ]]\c 
.  .  .  much  closei-  at  hand.  Ilitlieito.  I  have 
not    understood     myself:     1     have     set     myself 

tasks  that  were  beyond  mv  strength M\ 

eyes  have  recently  been  opined,  thanks  to  a 
certain  feeling.  ...  I  (\o  not  ex])ress  my- 
self  quite   clearly,    but    1    hope    yoii    understand 

me 

307 


FATHERS  AXD  CHII.DREX 

Kiitya  made  no  reply,  but  ceased  to  look  at 
Arkady. 

"  I  assume," — he  went  on  again,  in  a  more  agi- 
tated voice,  and  a  chaffinch  above  his  head,  in  the 
foliage  of  a  birch-tree,  unconcernedly  carolled  his 
song, — "  I  assume  that  it  is  the  dut\  of  every 
honest  man  to  be  perfectly  frank  witli  those  .... 
those  persons  who  ....  in  a  word,  with  the  per- 
sons who  are  near  to  his  heart,  and,  therefore,  I 
....  I  intend  .  .  .  ." 

But  here  Arkady's  eloquence  failed  him;  he 
became  confused,  stammered,  and  was  forced  to 
pause  for  a  while;  still  Katya  did  not  raise  her 
eyes.  Apparently,  she  did  not  understand  what 
all  this  was  leading  up  to,  and  was  waiting  for 
something. 

"  I  foresee  that  I  shall  surprise  you,"  —  began 
Arkady,  collecting  his  forces  afresh,—"  the  more 
so  as  this  feeling  relates,  in  a  certain  way  .  .  . 
in  a  certain  way,  observe. — to  you.  I  remember 
that  vou  re])roached  me  yesterda?'  with  a  lack  of 
seriousness," — went  on  Arkady,  with  the  aspect 
of  a  man  who  has  walked  into  a  morass,  feels  that 
with  every  step  he  is  sinking  deeper  and  deeper, 
and,  nevertheless,  strides  onward,  in  the  hope  of 
traversing  it  as  speedily  as  possible:  — "  that  re- 
proach is  often  directed  ....  falls  ...  on 
young  people,  even  wlien  they  have  ceased  to 

merit  it;  and  if  I  had  more  self-confidence " 

("  Come,  help  me,  help  me!  "  thought  Arkady,  in 

308 


FATllKliS   AM)   CIIILDKKN 

despair,  but  Katya,  as  l)elort.\  did   imt   turn  lu  r 
head.) — "  If  1  could  liopr  .  .   .   ." 

"  If  1  could  feel  convinced  of  w  luit  you  say," 
rang  out   Anna  Scrgyeevna's  clear  \oice  at  that 
moment. 

Arkiidv  instantlx  ))ecanic  (lunil>.  and  Kat\a 
turned  ])ale.  A  patli  ran  |)ast  the  ImisIks  uliicli 
screened  the  ))ortico.  iVnna  Sergyecvna  was 
walking  along  it,  in  (•()nij)any  uitli  Ha/amn'. 
Kiitva  and  Arkadv  could  not  srr  tluni.  Imt  llu-\- 
heard  every  word,  the  rustling  of  lici-  gown.  li<i- 
very  breath.  Thcx-  advanced  a  few  paces  and 
halted,  as  though  \\  ith  dclil)erate  intent,  directly 
in  front  of  the  portico. 

"You  see,"  — pursued  Anna  .Scrgyec\  na. 
"  you  and  I  have  made  a  nnstakc;  ncitlur  of  us  is 
in  his  first  youth,  especiafly  I  :  wr  liavc  lixcd,  we 
are  weary;  why  should  we  ?)otl)  stand  <>n  cere- 
mony?—we  are  clever:  at  first,  wi-  interested  each 
other,  our  curiosity  was  aroused anil 

then " 

"  And  then  I  grew  insipid,'— put  in  liazarotf. 

"  You  know  that  that  was  not  tiic  cause  of  our 
falling  out.  But,  at  any  rate,  we  did  not  need 
each  other;  that  is  the  principal  point:  there  was 
too  much  in  us  that  was  ....  hnw  snail  1  ex- 
press it?  .  .  .  identical.  \Vc  did  not  cnnij'nhcnd 
that  at  first.    On  the  contrary,  .\rkady   •   ••   • 

"Do  you  need  hiniT'     in<iuircd   Ha/,arofl. 

"  That  will  do,  KvgcJiv  Vasi'licvitdi.     V..n  say 

809 


FATHEKS  AND  CHILDREN 

that  he  is  not  indifferent  to  me,  and  it  always  has 
seemed  to  me  that  he  Hked  me.  I  know  that  I  am 
fit  to  be  his  aunt,  but  1  will  not  conceal  from  you 
that  I  have  begun  to  think  more  frequently  of 
him.  There  is  a  certain  charm  in  that  young, 
fresh  feeling " 

"  The  word  fasciimtion  is  more  used  in  such 
cases," — interposed  Bazaroff ;  seething  bitterness 
was  audible  in  his  calm,  but  dull  voice.  —  "  Arkady 
seemed  to  be  mysterious  with  me  yesterday ;  he  did 
not  mention  either  you  or  your  sister.  .  .  That 
is  an  important  symptom." 

"  He  is  exactly  like  a  brother  with  Katya," — 
said  Anna  Sergyeevna,  —  "  and  I  like  that  in  him, 
although  possibly  I  ought  not  to  allow^  such  in- 
timacy between  them." 

"  Is  that  the  ....  sister  .  .  .  speaking  in 
you?" — articulated  Bazaroff  slowly. 

"  Of  course ;  .  .  .  .  but  why  are  we  standing 
here?  Let  us  go  on.  What  a  strange  conversa- 
tion between  us,  is  it  not?  And  could  I  have  an- 
ticipated that  I  should  talk  thus  with  you  ?  You 
know  that  I  am  afraid  of  you,  ....  and,  at  the 
same  time,  I  trust  you  because,  in  reality,  you  are 
very  kind." 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  kind  in  the  least; 
and,  in  the  second  place,  I  have  lost  all  signifi- 
cance foryou,  and  you  tell  me  that  I  am  kind. 

That  is  exactly  the  same  as  placing  a 

wreath  of  flowers  on  the  head  of  a  corpse." 

aio 


FATIIKirs    AM)   CIIILDKKN 

"  Evgcny  Vasilitcli,  \\c  caiiiiol  contiol  .  .  .  .' 
began  Anna  Sergveeviia;  hut  ;i  hrcc/x'  swept  li\ . 
rustled  the  leaves,  and  eariied  away  her  words. 

"  Assuredly,  you  art-  free,"  — enuneiated  Haza- 
roff,  after  a  brief  pause.  It  was  inipossihli-  to 
make  out  any  more;  the  footsteps  died  awa\  .  .  . 
all  beeame  silent. 

Arkady  turned  to  Katya.  Shr  was  sitting  in 
the  same  attitude,  oidy  she  had  l)ow<.'d  lier  liead 
still  lower  tliaii  before. 

"  Katerina  Sergveevna,"  — he  said,  with  a  trem- 
bling voice,  and  witli  tiglitly  ehisped  hands:  I 
love  you  forever  and  irre\()eal)ly,  and  1  l(i\c  no 
one  but  you.  1  wanted  to  say  tliis,  to  liarn  your 
opinion  and  to  ask  your  liand,  because  I  aui  not 
rich,  and  1  feel  that  1  am  |)repaic(l  I'oi-  all  sacri- 
fices. .  .  You  do  not  answer'  ^'oii  do  not  helie\ c 
me?  You  think  that  I  am  s|)eaking  idly'  Hut 
remember  these  last  few  days!  Is  it  possible  llial 
you  have  not  long  ago  eon\  ineed  yourself,  every- 
thing else — understand  me  — ever\  thing.  cMiy- 
thing  else  long  ago  vanished  without  a  traee.' 
Look  at  me,  say  one  woi-d  to  me.  .  1  lose  .... 
I  love  you   .   .   .   belie\e  mi' I 

Katya  looked  at  .Arkady  with  a  solemn,  beam- 
ing gaze,  and  ai'tei-  long  meditation,  hardly  smil- 
ing, she  said:—''  Yes." 

Arkady  sprang  from  tlu  Ik  neh.  '  ^  «  si  ^  on 
said  '  yes,'  Kateri'na  Sei-gyee\  iia  I  What  does  that 
word  mean  f     Does  it  mean  "  1   lo\  e  you,    or  that 

;iii 


FATHERS  A^D  CHILDREN 

you  believe  me?  .  .  .  Or  ....  or  ....  1  dare 
not  finish  .  .  .  ," 

"  Yes," — repeated  Katj-a,  and  this  time  he  un- 
derstood her.  He  seized  her  large,  beautiful 
hands,  and  panting  with  rapture,  j^ressed  them  to 
his  heart.  He  could  hardly  stand  on  his  feet,  and 
merely  kept  repeating:  "  Katya,  Katya  .  .  .  ." 
and  she  fell  to  wee})ing,  in  an  innocent  sort  of 
way,  laughing  gently  at  her  own  tears.  He  who 
has  not  beheld  such  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  beloved 
being  has  not  yet  experienced  to  what  a  degree, 
all  swooning  with  gratitude  and  with  shame,  a 
man  can  be  happy  on  this  earth. 

On  the  following  day,  early  in  the  morning, 
Anna  Sergyeevna  ordered  BazarofF  to  be  sum- 
moned to  her  boudoir,  and,  with  a  forced  laugh, 
she  handed  him  a  folded  sheet  of  note-paper.  It 
w^as  a  letter  from  Arkady :  in  it  he  asked  the  hand 
of  her  sister. 

BazarofF  swiftly  glanced  over  the  letter,  and 
exerted  an  eifort  over  himself  not  to  display  the 
impetuous  feeling  which  instantly  flamed  up  in 
his  soul. 

"  So  that  's  how  it  is,"  —  he  said;  — "  and  you,  I 
believe,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday,  supposed 
that  he  loved  Katerina  Sergyeevna  with  the  love 
of  a  brother.    What  do  you  mean  to  do  now?  " 

"  What  do  you  advise  me  to  do?  "—asked  Anna 
Sergyeevna,  continuing  to  laugh. 

"  Why,  I  think,"  — re])lied  Bazaroff,  also  with 

312 


FATTIKKS   A\T)  CTTTl.DTn.X 

a  laugh,  although  lir  did  iiol  IVcI  at  all  mciiy,  and 
did  not,  in  the  least,  wish  to  laugh,  any  more  than 
she  did:  —  "  I  think  you  will  liave  to  give  the 
young  people  your  hlessing.  1 1  is  a  fine  rnaleli.  in 
every  respect;  Kirsanoff  lias  a  respect  a  hie  |iroj>- 
ertv,  he  is  his  father's  onl\-  son,  and  the  latin  >•  is 
a  fine  fellow  also,  I  will  not  deny  it." 

Madame  Odintzoif  |)ac((l  the  room.  II«i-  face 
flushed  and  ])aled  hv  turns. 

"You  think  soi*"  — sjie  said.  "  \\'hy  not'  i 
see  no  obstacle.  ...  I  am  ("lad  I'oi-  Katva  .  .  . 
and  for  Arkady  Xikohieviteli.  ()!'  course  1  siiall 
await  his  father's  re])ly.  I  will  send  him  himself 
to  him.  TJut,  you  see,  it  turns  out  that  1  \\  as  right 
yesterday  wlien  I  told  vou  that  we  were  hotli  old 
folks.  .  .  .  ITow  is  it  that  I  did  not  see  this^  It 
amazes  me!  " 

Again  Anna  Sergyeevna  l)egan  to  laugh,  and 
immediately  turned  away. 

"  The  young  ])eoplc  of  the  present  day  ha\  i-  Ik.'- 
come  yery  sly,"  — remarked  Hazaroff,  and  hegan 
to  laugh  also.  — "  (iood-hye,"  — he  said  again, 
after  a  brief  pause. — "  I  ho])v  you  will  finish  this 
affair  in  the  most  agreeable  manner:  and  1  shall 
rejoice  from  afar." 

Madame  Odintzoff  tnrnc.l  swiftly  toward  him. 

"  You  are  not  going  away  r  Why  should  you 
not  remain  twrc?  Remain  ....  it  is  jolly  to 
talk  with  you  ....  just  like  walking  on  the 
brink  of  a  preci])ice:  at  first  one  IVrls  timid,  hut 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

afterward  one  gets  courage  from  somewliere  or 
other.    Remain." 

"  Thanks  for  your  suggestion,  Anna  Sergye- 
evna,  and  for  your  flattei'ing  opinion  of  my  con- 
versational talents.  But  I  think  that  I  have  been 
already  revolving  too  long  as  it  is,  in  a  sphere 
which  is  foreign  to  me.  Flying  fish  are  able  to 
maintain  themselves  for  (juite  a  while  in  the  air, 
but  they  are  bound  soon  to  splash  back  into  the 
water;  permit  me  also  to  paddle  in  my  own  ele- 
ment." 

^Madame  Odintzoff  looked  at  BazarofF.  A  bit- 
ter sneer  contorted  his  pale  face.  "  That  man 
loved  me!"  she  thought — and  she  felt  sorry  for 
him,  and  offered  him  her  hand  with  sympathy. 

But  he  understood  her.  —  "  No!  " — he  said,  and 
retreated  a  pace.  — "  I  am  a  poor  man,  but  up  to 
this  time  I  have  not  accej^ted  alms.  Farewell, 
madame,  and  may  good  health  be  yours." 

"  I  am  convinced  that  this  is  not  our  last  meet- 
ing,"—articulated  Anna  Sergyeevna,  wdth  an  in- 
voluntary movement. 

"  All  sorts  of  things  happen  in  this  world!  "  — 
replied  Bazaroff,  bowed,  aiid  left  the  room. 

"  So  thou  hast  taken  it  into  thy  head  to  build  a 
nest?" — he  said  that  same  day  to  Arkady,  as, 
squatting  on  his  heels,  he  packed  his  trunk. — 
"  Why  not?  It  is  a  good  move.  I  expected  a 
wholly  different  direction  from  thee.  Or,  per- 
chance, this  has  stiuined  thee  thyself?  " 

314 


FATIIP:US  AM)  C  IIILDin-A' 

"  1  really  did  iiol  txpcrt  it  when  j  jiartrd  Jn.iu 
thee,"— replied  Arkddy.  "  Hut  why  dost  tliou 
thyself  quibble  and  say:  '  it  is  a  ^r,„„|  „„,vi.;  as 
though  1  were  not  auair  of  thine  opinion  as  to 
matrimony? " 

"  Ekh,  my  dear  friend, "-said  lia/aiotl': 
"what  a  way  thou  hast  of  e\j)ressing  thysiU'I 
Thou  seest  what  I  am  doing:  there  turns  out  to 
be  an  empty  space  in  my  trunk,  and  I  stuff  in  li.i\  ; 
so  it  is  with  our  trunk  of  life;  it  must  be  filled  u  ilh 
anj^thing  that  comes  to  hand,  so  that  there  may  be 
no  empty  space.  Please  do  not  take  offence:  thou 
probably  recallest  what  opinion  I  have  always 
held  of  Katerina  Sergyeevna.  Some  young  ladies 
bear  the  reputation  of  being  clever  because  they 
sigh  cleverly;  but  thy  young  lady  can  stand  up  for 
herself,  and  stand  up  in  such  wise,  to  l)oot.  tliat 
she  will  manage  thee,  — well,  and  that  is  as  it 
should  be." 

He  banged  down  the  lid  and  rose  from  the  floor. 
— "  And  now  I  repeat  to  thee  in  farewell  because 
there  is  no  use  in  deceiving  ourselves:  wr  are  j)art- 
ing  forever,  and  thou  feelest  that  tiiysiH"  .  .  . 
thou  hast  acted  wisely;  thou  wert  not  created  for 
our  bitter,  harsh,  wretched  life.  There  is  in  tliee 
neither  insolence  nor  nialiic  but  tluic  is  youtii- 
ful  audacity  and  vouthrul  aiioyaner ;  that  is  not 
suited  to  our  cause.  A  man  of  your  soit,  a  nobk- 
man,  cannot  go  any  rnitlur  than  noble  sul>mission 
or  noble  efi'crvcsccnce,  and  that  is  stuff  and  non- 

yi.3 


FATHERS  AM)  CHILDREN 

sense.  You,  for  example,  do  not  fight, — and  yet 
you  imagine  that  you  are  a  dashing  fellow, — while 
we  want  to  fight.  >Vnd  what  is  the  state  of  the 
case?  Our  dust  eats  thine  eves  out,  our  mud  be- 
spatters  thee,  but  thou  hast  not  grown  up  to  our 
stature;  thou  involuntarily  admirest  thvself :  it  is 
pleasant  for  thee  to  scold  thyself ;  but  we  find  that 
tiresome — serve  us  up  others!  we  must  break 
others!  Thou  art  a  splendid  young  fellow;  but, 
nevertheless,  thou  art  a  soft,  liberal  young  gentle- 
man,— et  voldtoid,  as  mv  parent  expresses  him- 
self." 

"  Thou  art  bidding  me  an  eternal  farewell, 
Evgeny? "— said  Arkady  sadly.  "And  hast 
thou  no  other  words  for  me?  " 

BazarofF  scratched  the  nape  of  his  neck.  — "  I 
have,  Arkady,  I  have  other  words,  only  I  shall  not 
utter  them,  because  that  is  romanticism, — that 
means:  making  one's  self  too — sypuppy.  But  do 
thou  marry  as  promptly  as  possible,  and  estab- 
lish thy  nest,  and  beget  as  many  children  as  thou 
canst.  They  will  be  clever  creatures,  simply  be- 
cause thev  will  be  born  in  a  different  ag-e  from 
what  thou  and  I  were.  Ehe!  I  see  that  the  horses 
are  ready.  It  is  time  to  go!  I  have  said  good- 
bye to  everybody Well,  how  now?  shall 

we  embrace? " 

Arkady  flung  himself  on  the  neck  of  his  former 
preceptor  and  friend,  and  the  tears  fairl;^ 
streamed  fi'om  his  eves. 

316 


FATIIKKS   AM)  (  II 1 1  J  )in:\ 

"  That 's  what  it  is  to  be  young!  "  — cjacnlaled 
BazarofF  cahiily.  "lint  I  place-  my  Ii()|hs  on 
Katerina  Sergyeeviia.  Just  sn  how  .inickly  slic 
will  conif oi't  thee !  " 

"Farewell,  hrotlier!  "  — he  said  to  Arkadw 
when  he  had  eland)ered  into  tlic  |)ea.sanl  cart ;  and 
pointing  to  a  pair  of  jackdaws,  w  liicli  were  sitting 
on  the  roof  of  the  stable,  he  added  :  •  I  .ook  yon- 
der!—study  them!  " 

"  What  does  that  mean?  "  —  asked  Arkady. 

"  What?  Art  thou  so  weak  in  natural  histoiy, 
or  hast  thou  forgotten,  that  the  daw  is  the  most 
res2:)eetable,  domestic  of  birds?  An  examj)le  Tor 
thee!— Good-bye,  senor!  " 

The  cart  rattled  and  rolled  aw  a\'. 

Bazaroff  had  spoken  the  truth.  ^\s  he  chatted 
with  Katya  that  evening  he  had  totally  forgotten 
his  tutor.  He  liad  already  begun  to  come  under 
her  sway,  and  Katya  was  conscious  of  it,  and  was 
not  surprised.  He  was  obliged  to  go  to  Marino. 
to  Nikolai  Petrovitch,  on  the  following  day. 
Anna  Sergyeevna  did  not  wish  to  cnibaiiass  the 
young  people,  and  only  out  of  decorum  did  not 
leave  them  too  long  alone  together.  SJic  mag- 
nanimously banished  from  them  the  I'rince.ss,  who 
had  been  reduced  to  a  state  of  tearful  wrath  by 
the  news  of  the  impending  marriage.  At  first 
Anna  Sergyeevna  feared  lest  the  spectacle  of 
their  happiness  should  seem  somewhat  o|)|)ressive 
to  her;  but  it  turned  out  to  be  exactly  the  reverse: 

317 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

that  spectacle  not  only  did  not  oppress  her,  it  in- 
terested her,  it  touched  her  at  last.  Anna 
Sergyeevna  was  delighted  yet  saddened  by  this. 
"Evidently,  BazarofF  is  right," — she  thought: 
"  curiosity,  mere  curiosity,  and  love  of  a  quiet 
life,  and  egotism " 

"  Children," — she  said  aloud,  —  "  is  love  an  im- 
aginary feeling?  " 

But  neither  Katva  nor  Arkady  even  understood 
her.  They  shunned  her;  they  could  not  get  the 
conversation  which  they  had  involuntarily  over- 
lieard  out  of  their  minds.  However,  Anna 
Sergyeevna  speedily  reassured  them;  and  that 
was  not  difficult :  she  had  reassured  herself. 


318 


XXVII 

The  old  BazarofFs  were  all  the  more  deliglitcd 
at  their  son's  unexpected  return,  in  proj)()rtion  as 
they  had  the  least  expected  it.  Arina  Vlasievna 
was  perturbed  to  such  a  degree,  and  so  exhausted 
herself  by  running  all  over  the  house,  that  Vasily 
Ivanitch  compared  her  to  a  "  mother  partridge  " : 
the  bobtail  of  her  short,  loose,  morning  gown 
really  did  give  her  a  somewhat  bird-like  air.  And 
he  himself  merely  bellowed  and  bit  the  amber 
mouthpiece  of  his  tchubiik  sideways,  and  grasp- 
ing his  neck  with  his  hands,  twisted  his  head,  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  find  out  whether  it  were 
well  screwed  on,  then  suddenly  opened  his  wide 
mouth  to  its  fidl  extent,  and  laughed  heartily 
but  absolutely  without  sound. 

"  I  have  come  to  you  for  six  whole  weeks,  old 
man,"— BazarofF  said  to  him:—"  I  want  to  work, 
so  please  don't  bother  me." 

"  Thou  wilt  forget  my  physiognomy,  that  \s  the 
way  I  shall  bother  thee!  "—replied  Vasily  Iva- 
novitch." 

He  kept  his  promise.  Having  installed  liis  son, 
as  before,  in  his  study,  he  devoted  himself  to  liid- 
ing  from  him,  and  restrained  his  wife  from  ;ill 

319 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREX 

superfluous  manifestations  of  tenderness.  "  ]Mv 
dear  woman," — he  said  to  her,  "  during  Eni- 
ushka"s  first  visit  we  bored  him  a  bit ;  now  we  must 
be  more  sensible."  Arina  Vlasievna  agreed  with 
her  husband,  but  gained  little  by  so  doing,  because 
she  saw  her  son  only  at  meals,  and  became  defini- 
tively afraid  to  speak  to  him.  "  Eniiishenka!  "  — 
she  would  say  to  him, — and  before  he  could  glance 
round  she  would  be  tugging  at  the  cords  of  her 
reticule,  and  stammering:  "  Xever  mind,  never 
mind,  I  did  n't  mean  anything,"  and  tlien  she 
would  betake  herself  to  Vasily  Ivanovitch  and  say 
to  him,  propping  her  cheek  on  her  hand:  "  I 
should  like  to  find  out,  my  darling,  what  Eniiisha 
wants  to-day  for  dinner,  cabbage-soup  or  beet- 
soupf 

"  But  why  dost  not  thou  ask  him  thyself?  "  — 
"But  I  shall  bore  him!"  However,  BazarofF 
soon  ceased  to  lock  himself  up :  the  fever  of  w^ork 
leaped  aijcay  from  him,  and  was  replaced  by  de- 
jected boredom  and  dull  disquiet.  A  strange  lan- 
guor was  perceptible  in  all  his  movements;  even 
his  walk,  firm  and  impetuously  bold,  underw^ent 
a  change.  He  ceased  to  take  solitary  strolls  and 
began  to  seek  society;  he  drank  tea  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, prowled  about  the  vegetable-garden 
with  Vasily  Ivanovitch,  and  smoked  with  him 
"  dumb  as  a  fish."  One  day  he  inquired  of  his 
father  concerning  Father  Alexyei.  At  first. 
Vasily  Ivanovitch  rejoiced  at  this  change,  but  liis 

320 


FATHERS    AND    CHTT.DREX 

joy  w  as  not  of  long  duration.  '*  Enii'isha  dis- 
tresses me,"  he  complained  quietly  to  his  wife; 
"  he  is  not  exactly  dissatisfied  or  anirrv,  that 
would  not  matter;  he  is  embittered,  he  is  melan- 
choly,—  that  is  the  terrible  thing.  He  persist- 
ently maintains  silence,  as  though  he  were  re- 
proaching thee  and  me;  he  is  getting  thin,  his 
complexion  has  a  bad  colour." — "  O  Lord.  () 
Lord! "'  whispered  the  old  woman;  "  I  would  like 
to  put  an  amulet  on  his  neck,  but  of  course 
he  would  not  let  me."  Vasfly  Ivanovitch 
himself  made  several  attempts  to  question  Baza- 
rofF  about  his  work,  about  his  health,  about  Ar- 
kady  But  Bazaroff  answered  him  unwill- 
ingly and  carelessly,  and  one  day.  noticing  that 
his  father,  in  conversation,  was  making  stealthy 
approaches  toward  something,  he  said  to  him 
with  vexation:  "  Why  art  thou  constantly,  as  it 
were,  walking  round  me  on  tiptoe '.  That  manner 
is  worse  than  thy  former  one!  " 

"  Well,  well,  well,  I  did  n't  mean  anything!  " 
hastily  replied  poor  Vasily  Ivanovitch.  His  polit- 
ical hints  remained  equally  fruitless.  In  begin- 
ning, one  day,  a  conversation  in  connection  witli 
the  impending  emancipation  of  the  serfs,  about 
progress,  he  hoped  to  arouse  the  sympathy  of  his 
son;  but  the  latter  said  indifferently:  "  Yester- 
day, as  I  was  walking  past  a  hedge,  I  heard  the 
little  peasant  boys  of  this  locality  shouting,  in 
place  o^  some  ancient  ballad:     'The  loyal  time 

321 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

is  corning-,  the  heart  feeleth  Jove  '—there  's  prog- 
ress for  thee." 

Sometimes  BazarofF  betook  himself  to  the  vil- 
lage, and,  banteringly,  as  was  his  wont,  entered 
into  conversation  with  some  peasant  man  or  other. 
"  Comej"  he  said  to  him,  "  expound  tw  me  your 
views  of  life,  brother ;  for  in  you,  they  say,  lies  the 
whole  force  and  f utiu'e  of  Russia,  with  you  a  new 
epoch  in  history  will  begin, — you  will  give  us  both 
a  genuine  language  and  laws."  The  peasant 
either  made  no  reply  or  uttered  some  words  to  the 
following  effect :"  And  we  can  .  .  .  too,  because, 
you  know  ....  what  limits  are  appointed  to 
us,  for  example." 

"  Do  thou  just  explain  to  me  what  thy  world 
is," — BazarofF  interrupted  him.  "  And  is  it  that 
same  world  which  stands  on  three  fishes?  " 

"  The  earth  does  stand  on  three  fishes,"  — 
explained  the  serf  soothingly,  in  a  patriarch- 
ally-good-humoured  singsong, — "  but  against  our 
commune  ^  there  is,  as  every  one  knows,  the  will 
of  the  master ;  because  you  are  our  fathers.  And 
the  more  strict  is  the  lord  of  the  manor  in  his 
demands,  the  pleasanter  it  is  for  the  peasant." 

One  day,  after  listening  to  a  speech  of  this  sort, 
BazarofF  shruo^ed  his  shoulders  scornfully  and 
turned  aside,  and  the  peasant  went  his  way. 

"What  wert  thou  talking  about?  "  —  another 
peasant  asked  him — a  middle-aged  man,  with  a 

1  Mir,  world;  Jlir,  commune. —Traxsl^vtok, 

322 


FATIIKUS    AND    C'IIIM)1{KN 

surly  countenance,  from  the  thiesliold  of  his  cot- 
tage, who  had  witnessed  from  afar  this  conver- 
sation with  Bazaroff.  — "  Ahout  tlie  arrears  of 
taxes? " 

"  About  the  arrears  of  taxes,  forsooth,  my  /^ood 
fellow!  "—replied  the  first  peasant,  and  in  liis 
voice  there  was  no  longer  a  trace  of  the  patriarclial 
singsong,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  cei-tain  careless 
moroseness  was  audible.  —  "  We  just  cliattered  a 
bit;  his  tongue  was  itching  to  talk.  Every Ixxly 
knows  how  it  is— he  's  a  gentleman  ;  can  lie  under- 
stand anything?  " 

"How  should  he  understand!  "  —  replied  the 
other  peasant,  and  shaking  their  caps  and  tucking 
in  their  belts,  the  two  set  to  discussing  their  own 
affairs  and  needs.  Alas!  Bazaroff,  wlio  had 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  knew  liow  to  talk  to 
the  peasants  (as  he  had  boasted,  in  the  course  of 
his  quarrel  witli  Pavel  Petrovitcli),  that  self-con- 
fident Bazaroff  did  not  even  suspect  that  lie  was. 
in  tlieir  eyes,  something  in  the  nature  of  a  horn 
fool.  .  .  . 

However,  at  last  he  found  an  occupation  lor 
himself.  One  day,  in  his  presence,  ^^lsl'ly  Iva- 
nitch  was  binding  up  a  peasant's  in  jurcd  leg.  hut 
the  old  man's  hands  treml)lcd  and  he  could  not 
manage  the  bandages;  his  son  helped,  and  from 
that  time  forth  he  began  to  take  ])art  in  his  jjiac- 
tice,  without  ceasing,  at  the  same  time,  to  jeer, 
both  at  tlie  remedies  which  he  liimsclf  had  recorn- 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

mended,  and  at  his  father,  who  immediately  made 
use  of  them.  But  Bazaroff's  sneers  did  not  in 
the  least  discomfit  A^asilv  Ivanovitch;  rather  did 
tliey  comfort  liim.  Clasping  his  soiled  dressing- 
govvn  to  his  belly  with  two  fingers,  and  smoking 
liis  pipe,  he  listened  with  delight  to  BazarofF,  and 
the  more  ill-temper  there  was  in  his  sallies,  the 
more  good-naturedly  did  his  enraptured  father 
laugh,  displaying  all  his  black  teeth,  to  the  very 
last  one.  He  even  frequently  repeated  these  stu- 
pid or  senseless  sallies,  and,  for  example,  for  a 
space  of  several  days  he  would  keep  repeating, 
without  rhjmie  or  reason:  "Well,  that's  of  no 
consequence!  "  ^  simply  because  his  son,  on  learn- 
ing that  he  was  accustomed  to  go  to  JNIatins,  had 
emploj^ed  that  expression.  —  "  Thank  God!  he  has 
ceased  to  have  the  blue  devils!  "  he  whispered  to 
his  wife;  "  the  way  he  snubbed  me  to-day, — it  was 
wonderful!  "  On  the  other  hand,  the  thought  that 
he  possessed  such  an  assistant  inspired  him  with 
enthusiasm,  filled  him  with  pride.  "  Yes,  yes,"  he 
said  to  a  peasant  woman,  in  a  man's  coat,  and  a 
head-dress  like  a  pointed  coronet,  with  horns,  as 
he  handed  her  a  phial  of  Gulyard  water,  or  a  pot 
of  white  ointment,  "  my  good  soul,  thou  shouldst 
thank  God  every  minute  that  my  son  is  visiting 
me:  thou  art  being  doctored  now  after  the  most 
scientific  and  the  newest  method,  dost  thou  under- 

'  In  Russian  rather  slanfjily  expressed:  "That 's  the  ninth 
affair!  "  —  Translator. 

324» 


FATHERS   AXl)  CIIILDHKX 

stand  that?  Even  tlie  Eni])cr()r  of  tlif  Frtncli, 
Napoleon,  has  no  better  doctor."  i\nd  the  woman 
who  had  come  to  comphiiii  that  slie  "  had  ^ot  the 
gripes  "  (bnt  she  was  not  herself  able  to  exi)lalii 
what  she  meant  by  tliese  words)  merely  made  a 
reverence,  and  thrust  her  hand  into  liei-  bosom, 
where  hw  four  eggs  wrapped  uj)  in  the  end  oi'  a 
towel. 

BazarofF  once  even  extracted  a  tooth  for  a  ])ass- 
ing  pedlar  of  dress  goods,  and  although  that 
tooth  was  of  the  most  ordinary  sort,  nevertheless 
Vasily  Ivanovitch  preserved  it  as  a  rarity,  and  ex- 
hibited it  to  Father  Alexyei,  repeating  inces- 
santly : 

"Just  look,  what  roots!  Such  strength  as 
Evgeny  has!  He  fairly  lifted  that  dry-goods 
pedlar  into  the  air.  .  .  It  seems  to  me  that  even 
an  oak-tree  would  have  flown  out!  .  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  laudable!  "  —  said  Father  Alexyei  at  last, 
not  knowing  what  reply  to  make,  and  how  to  rid 
himself  of  the  old  man,  wdio  had  gone  into  ec- 
stasies. 

One  day  a  wretched  peasant  from  a  neighbour- 
ing village  brought  to  Vasily  Ivanovitch  his  bro- 
ther, who  w^as  ill  with  typhus  fever.  Eying  i)rone 
upon  a  truss  of  straw,  the  unfortunate  man  was 
dying;  dark  spots  covered  his  body;  he  had  even 
lost  consciousness.  Vasily  Ivanovitch  exi)ressed 
his  regret  that  it  liad  not  occurred  to  some  one  ear- 
lier to  have  recourse  to  the  aid  of  medicine,  and 

325 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDREX 

announced  that  tlierc  was  no  liope.  xVs  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  peasant  did  not  get  his  brother  home 
ahve;  the  man  died  in  the  cart. 

Three  days  later  Bazaroff  entered  his  father's 
room,  and  inquired  wlietlier  lie  had  not  lunar 
caustic? 

"  I  have;  what  dost  thou  need  it  for?  " 

"  I  need  it  .  .  .  to  cauterise  a  wound." 

"Whose?" 

"  ]\Iy  own." 

"  What,  thine  own !  Why  ?  What  wound  is  it  ? 
Where  is  it?  " 

"  Here  on  mv  finder.  To-dav  I  went  to  the  vil- 
lage,  thou  knowest,  the  one  whence  they  brought 
that  peasant  with  the  typhus.  For  some  reason, 
they  were  jireparing  to  open  him,  and  I  had  had 
no  practice  in  that  for  a  long  time." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  and  so  I  asked  leave  of  the  district 
physician,  and  cut  myself." 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  turned  pale  all  over,  and 
without  uttering  a  word,  he  flew  to  his  cupboard, 
whence  he  immediately  returned  with  a  piece  of 
lunar  caustic  in  his  hand.  Bazaroff  was  about  to 
take  it  and  depart. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  — said  Vasily  Ivanovitch:  — 
"  let  me  do  it  myself." 

Bazaroff  grinned.  — "  How  anxious  thou  art 
for  practice!  " 

"  Don't  jest,  ])lease.  Show  me  thy  finger.  The 
wound  is  not  large.    Does  n't  it  hurt?  " 

826 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDUKX 

"  Press  on  lianlt-r,  lioiTt  l>r  al'ni'ul.'" 
Vasily  Ivanovitch  paused.      "  W'luit  dost  thou 
think,  Evgeny,  would  n't  it  \)v  lutter  for  us  to  cau- 
terise it  with  a  liot  iron  (  " 

"  That  ought  to  liave  been  done  sooner,  l»ut 
now,  in  reahty,  even  the  huiar  caustic  is  of  no  use. 
If  I  have  been  infected,  it  is  too  hite  anyway.  " 

"How too      hite? "       Vasily 

Iviinovitch  could  hardly  articulate. 

"I   should  think   so!      More  than   four  hours 
have  elapsed  since  then." 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  cauterised  the  wound  a  little 
longer.—"  And  had  not  the  district  doctor  any 
lunar  caustic?  " 
"  No." 

••  How  came  that,  my  God!    A  physician-and 
he  has  not  such  an  indispensable  thing!  " 

"  Thou  shouldsi  see  his  lancets,"— said  Baza- 

roft\  and  left  the  room. 

Until  evening,  and  during  the  whole  course  of 
the  following  day.  Vasily  Ivanovitch  caught  at 
ever>-  possible  pretext  to  enter  his  son's  room,  and. 
although  he  not  only  did  not  mention  his  woun.l, 
hut  even  endeavoured  to  talk  alx)ut  the  most  irrel- 
evant subjects,  still  he  peered  so  persistently  into 
his  eves  and  watched  him  in  so  perturbed  a  man- 
ner  that  Bazaroff  lost  patience,  and  threatened 
to  leave  the  house.  Vasdy  Ivanovitch  gave  h.m  his 
word  not  to  worry,  the  more  so,  as  Anna  \  lasi- 
evna.  from  whom,  of  cnirse.  he  had  concealed 
everx-thing,  was  beginning  to  besiege  lum  with 

327 


FATHERS  xVXD  CHILDREN 

questions  as  to  why  he  did  not  sleep,  and  what  had 
lia])pened  to  him?  For  two  \\hole  days  he  perse- 
vered, altliough  he  did  not  greatly  like  the  looks 
of  his  son,  whom  he  still  watehed  hy  stealth,  .... 
hut  on  the  third  day  at  dinner  he  could  endure  it 
no  longer.  Ra/aroff  sat  with  howed  head,  and  did 
not  touch  a  single  viand. 

"Why  dost  thou  not  eat,  Evgenv?"— he 
asked,  imparting  to  his  face  the  most  care-free  of 
expressions.  — "  The  food  is  well  cooked,  I  think." 

"  I  don't  feel  like  it,  so  I  don't  eat." 

"Hast  thou  no  appetite?  And  how  is  thy 
head?" — he  added,  in  a  timid  voice:  — "does  it 
ache?  " 

"  Yes.    Why  should  n't  it  ache?  " 

Arina  Vlasievna  straightened  up,  and  pricked 
up  her  ears. 

"  Don't  he  Rngry,  please,  Evgeny," — went  on 
Vasily  Ivanovitch,  — "  hut  wilt  not  thou  allow  me 
to  feel  thy  pulse?  " 

Razaroff  rose  to  his  feet. — "  I  can  tell  thee, 
without  feeling  my  pidse,  that  I  have  fever." 

"And  hast  thou  had  a  chill?" 

"  I  have.  I  will  go  and  lie  down ;  and  do  you 
send  me  some  linden  tea.  I  must  have  caught 
cold." 

"  That  explains  why  I  heard  thee  coughing  last 
night," — said  Arina  Vlasievna. 

"  I  have  taken  cold,"-  re2)eated  Razaroff,  and 
left  the  room. 

328 


FATIIKHS   AM)  (  IIII.DHKX 

Arina  Masic\iia  husiid  iKiscir  with  pnpariri;; 
the  tea  from  liridtri  flowers,  l)iit  \'asily  Ivj'mox  itch 
went  into  the  adjoining-  mom  and  silcntlv  t(.i-.-  hit 
liair. 

Bazarott'  did  not  ^vt  up  a-^aiii  liial  day,  and 
spent  the  wliole  night  in  a  heavy,  half'-eoiiscioiis 
doze.  About  one  o'elock  in  tlic  morning,  opening 
his  eyes  with  an  effort,  he-  l)ehehi  aho\«-  liim,  hv 
the  dim  hght  of  the  shrinedamp,  tlic  pale  fare  of 
his  father,  and  ordered  liim  to  go  away:  the  latter 
obeyed,  but  immechately  returned  on  tij)t()e,  and 
half  screening  himself  with  the  cu])l)oard  door.  h< 
gazed  at  his  son,  never  onee  removing  his  eyes. 
Arina  Vlasievna  also  had  not  gone  to  ln-d,  a?id 
opening  the  door  of  the  study  a  mere  eraek,  slit- 
kept  approaehing  to  listen  "  how  Kniiisha  was 
breathing,"  and  to  look  at  \'asily  Ivjinoviteh.  She 
could  see  nothing  but  his  motionless,  bowed  back. 
but  even  that  afforded  her  some  solace.  In  the 
morning,  Bazaroff  tried  to  rise;  he  went  to  Ixd 
again.  Vasily  Ivanovitch  waited  upon  him  in 
silence;  Arina  Vlasievna  came  to  hini.  and  asked 
him  how  he  felt.  lie  replied;  '  Metter,"  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  ^'asily  Ivjinovitch 
waved  his  wife  off  with  both  hands;  she  bit  li<  i- 
lip,  in  order  to  keep  from  crying,  and  It  ft  tlu 
room.  Everything  about  the  hou.se  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  grown  dark;  all  faces  lengthened, 
a  strange  stillness  reigned;  a  loud-xoiccd  cock  w.is 
carried  off  from  the  court-yard  to  the  village,  and 


FATHERS  AM)  ClliLDKEN 

for  a  long  time  could  not  understand  A\'liy  he  was 
treated  in  that  way.  Bazaroff  continued  to  lie, 
nestled  up  to  the  wall.  Vasily  Ivanovitch  tried  to 
i)ut  various  questions  to  him,  but  they  wearied  Ba- 
zaroff, and  the  old  man  subsided  into  silence  in  his 
arm-chair,  only  now  and  then  cracking  his  fin- 
gers. He  went  out  into  the  garden  for  a  few 
moments,  stood  there  like  a  statue,  as  though  over- 
whelmed with  inexpressible  amazement  (in  gen- 
eral the  expression  of  amazement  never  left  his 
face),  and  returned  again  to  his  son,  striving  to 
avoid  interrogations  from  liis  wife.  At  last,  sht 
seized  him  bj^  the  arm,  and  convulsively,  almost 
menacingly, she  said:  "But  what  ails  him?"  Then 
he  regained  his  composure,  and  forced  himself  to 
smile  at  her  in  reply;  but,  to  his  own  horror,  in- 
stead of  a  smile,  he  evoked  a  laugh  from  some- 
where within  him.  He  had  sent  for  the  doctor  at 
daybreak.  He  considered  it  necessary  to  inform 
his  son  of  this,  so  that  the  latter  might  not  wax 
angry. 

Bazaroff  suddenly  tin-ned  over  on  the  couch, 
stared  dully  and  intently  at  his  father,  and  asked 
for  a  drink. 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  gave  him  water,  and  seized 
the  opportunity  to  feel  his  forehead. 

"  Old  man," — began  Bazaroff  in  a  hoarse,  slow 
voice, — "  this  is  a  bad  business  of  mine.  I  am 
poisoned,  and  thou  wilt  bury  me  a  few  days 
hence." 

330 


FATIIKKS   AM)  CIIILDKKN 

Vasily  Ivaiiovitc'l)  n-clcd,  as  tlioii^^li  soiiic  oiw 
had  struck  him  a  hlow  on  I  lie  legs. 

"  Evgcuy!  "  — lie  staiiiiiKR'd,  "  what  is  it  tlioii 
art  saying-!  (iod  lHM\itIi  tlicd  'I'Ikhi  Imst  caught 
cold.  ..." 

"  Stop,"  — Bazaroff'  iiit<.'rni])t('d  him  \\  ithoiit 
haste.  —  "  It  is  not  i)c'rniissil)k'  for  a  j)hysiciaii  to 
talk  like  that.  .AH  the  signs  oC  inlVction  exist, 
thou  knowest  it  thyseli'." 

"  Wliere  are  the  signs  ....  of  infection, 
Evgeny?  .  .  .  Gracious  heavens!" 

"And  how  ahout  thisi*"  —  said  Ba/aroff,  and 
stripping  up  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt,  he  showed  his 
father  the  ill-omened  red  spots  !)reaking  out. 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  shuddered,  and  turned  cold 
with  terror. — "  Let  us  assume,"  — lie  said  at  last. 
—  "let  us  assume  .  .  .  if  .  .  .  even  if  tlun-  is 
something  in  the  nature  of  infec- 
tion .   .   .   ." 

"  Of  pyemia,"  — prompted  his  son. 

"  Well,  ves  .   .   .   in  the  nature  of an 

epidemic  .  .  .  ." 

"  Of  7;/y<??wfa/'— repeated  Ha/aro<i'  gniflly  and 
distinctly:  —  "  can  it  he  that  thou  hast  alnady  for- 
gotten thy  text-hooks?" 

"  Well,  yes,  ves,  as  tliou  wilt.  .  .  .  Xeverthe- 
less,  we  will  cure  thee.  .  ." 

"Come,  that's  liumhug.  ihit  tiial  is  not  the 
point.  I  did  not  exi)eet  that  1  should  die  so  simhi; 
that  is  a  very  disagreeahlc-  aeeidi  rit,  to  si)eak  the 

331 


FATHEKS  AXD  CITTLDREX 

truth.  Both  thou  and  mother  must  now  profit  by 
the  fact  that  rehgion  is  strong  in  you ;  here  's  your 
chance  to  put  it  to  the  proof."  — He  took  another 
sip  of  water.  —  "  But  I  slioukl  hke  to  make  one  re- 
quest of  thee  .  .  .  while  my  head  is  still  under 
mv  command.  To-morrow,  or  the  day  after  to-  ' 
morrow,  as  thou  art  aware,  my  brain  will  resign 
from  duty.  Even  now  I  am  not  quite  certain 
whether  I  am  expressing  myself  clearly.  ^Vhile 
I  have  been  lying  here  it  has  seemed  to  me  all  the 
while  as  though  red  dogs  were  running  around 
me,  and  that  thou  wert  making  a  point  over  me, 
as  over  a  woodcock.  It  is  exactly  as  thougli  I 
were  drunk.    Dost  thou  understand  me  well?  " 

"  Goodness,  Evgeny,  thou  art  talking  in  pre- 
cisely the  proper  way." 

"  So  much  the  better;  thou  hast  told  me  that 
thou  hast  sent  for  the  doctor.  .  .  Thou  hast  com- 
forted thyself  thereby;  ....  comfort  me  also: 
send  a  special  messenger " 

"To  Arkady  Xikolaitch?  "—interpolated  the 
old  man. 

"Who  is  Arkady  Xikolaitch?  "-said  Baza- 
roff,  as  though  in  doubt.  ..."  xVkh,  yes!  that 
fledgling!  X"o,  don't  touch  liim;  he  has  become 
a  full-grown  bird  now.  Do  not  be  sur])rised;  this 
is  not  delirium.  But  do  tliou  send  a  messenger  to 
Anna  Sergyeevna  Odfnt/off;  there  is  a  landed 
])roprietress  of  that  name  yonder.  .  .  Knowest 
thou?  "  (Vasily  Ivanovitcli  nodded.)     "  Say  that 

332 


FATllKHS   AXl)  (  IIILDHKX 

Evgcny  Ba/iiroif  gavr  onh  is  Id  piisrnt  liis  cnin- 
pliments,  and  order  Ww  niari  to  say  lli.-il  In-  is 
dying.     Wilt   tlion   Cultil  tliis^  "" 

"I  ^^■ilI.  Only,  can  it  lie  jidssiMc  that  tlxiii 
shonldst  (lie,  Kvgrny!'  .  .  .  .Indgc  for  tlivsclfl 
AVIktc  wonid  he  tlic  jnstii'c  after  tliat  '.  " 

I  don't  know :  only  setid  tiie  messenger.  " 
I    will   send   liini   this   \vv\   minute,   and    \\ill 
write  a  letter  niysell'." 

"No,  why  shonldst  tlion'  Sa\  that  I  ii:i\t- 
orders  that  my  e()m|)liments  ^^t•re  to  he  |)resented  : 
nothing  more  is  necessary.  And  now  I  will  go 
back  to  my  dogs.  It  is  strange!  I  try  to  fix  my 
thouglits  on  death,  and  it  eomes  to  nothing.  I  see 
some  sort  of  a  spot  ....   and  that  is  all." 

Once  more  he  tnrned  paint'nily  toward  tlu- 
wall;  but  Vasily  Ivanoxitch  left  the  stndy.  and 
when  be  reached  bis  wife's  bed-chamber,  he  fairly 
tumbled  down  on  his  knees  before  the-  holy  j)ii- 
tures. 

"Pray,  Arina,  pray^"-  he  moaned:  '"our 
son  is  dying." 

The  doctor — that  same  district  doctor  who  had 
no  lunar  caustic — arrived,  and.  after  examining 
the  patient,  advi.sed  them  to  adoj)t  a  waiting 
policy,  and  added  a  few  words  as  to  th(  j)ossi- 
bilitv  of  recovery. 

"  "Rut  did  you  ever  hapj)en  to  see  ]H'o|)le  in  m\ 
situation  ffiil  to  betake  themsehcs  to  the  l\l\siaii 
Fields^'  — in<]uircd      Ha/..-ii(dr.      and.     sud(letd\- 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

grasping  tlie  leg  of  a  heavy  table,  which  stood 
near  the  divan,  he  shook  the  table  and  moved  it 
from  its  place. 

"  The  strength,  tlie  strength  is  all  there  still," 
— he  said, — "  but  I  must  die!  ....  An  old  man 
has,  at  least,  succeeded  in  weaning  himself  from 
life,  while  I  .  .  .  .  But  come,  just  try  to  contra- 
dict death.  It  contradicts  thee,  and  that  ends  the 
matter!  Who  is  weeping  there?" — he  added, 
after  a  brief  pause.  — "  ^Mother?  Poor  thing! 
AVhom  will  she  feed  now  with  her  wonderful  beet- 
soup?  And  thou  also,  Vasily  Ivanitch,  I  believe 
thou  art  whimpering  too?  Well,  if  Christianity 
does  not  help,  be  a  philosopher,  a  stoic!  I  be- 
lieve thou  wert  boasting  of  being  a  philosopher?  " 

"  JNIuch  of  a  philosopher  I  am!  "  roared  Vasily 
Ivanovitch,  and  the  tears  fairty  dripped  down  his 
cheeks. 

Bazaroff  grew  worse  with  every  passing  hour; 
the  malady  took  a  swift  course,  \A'hich  usually  hap- 
pens in  cases  of  surgical  poisoning.  He  had  not, 
as  yet,  lost  consciousness,  and  understood  what 
Avas  said  to  him;  he  still  struggled.  "  I  will  not 
be  delirious,"  —  he  whispered,  clenching  his  fists; 
— "  what  nonsense!  "  And  immediately  he  said: 
"  Well,  and  if  from  eight  you  subtract  ten,  how 
many  will  remain?"  —  Vasilv  Ivanovitch  walked 
about  like  a  crazy  person,  suggested  now  one  rem- 
edy, now  another,  and  did  nothing  but  keep  cov- 
ei'ing  liis  son's  feet.     "  He  must  be  wrapped  up 

334 


FATIIKKS  A\l)  (  niLDUFA' 

in  cold  slieets  .  .  .  ruiuseu  ....  iimstard  pla.s- 
ters  on  his  stonmcli  ....  Ijlood-littiij^,"-  lie 
.said,  with  an  eff'oi-t.  'I'hc  doctoi-,  whom  lie  had 
implored  to  remain,  humoured  him,  ^ave  the  j)a- 
tient  lemonade,  and  i'oi-  himself  asked  now  a  j)i|)e. 
now  "  somethiM<4'  stren<»lh(iiiii^  and  warming," 
that  is  to  say,  vodka.  Ai'ina  \'k-isi(\  na  sat  on  a 
low  heneh  near  the  door,  and  only  now  and  tlu  n 
went  away  to  ])i-ay;  a  i'ew  days  previously  her 
toilet  mirror  had  sli])])ed  out  of  liei-  hands  and 
been  broken,  and  she  had  always  icf^arded  tiiis  as 
a  bad  sign;  even  Anfisuslika  was  not  able  to  say 
anything  comforting  to  her.  Timofeiteli  had 
gone  to  ^Madame  Odintzoff. 

The  night  was  bad  for  Bazaroff.  .  .  .  lie  was 
tortured  by  a  violent  fever.  Toward  morning  he 
was  resting  more  easily.  lie  asked  tliat  An'na 
Vlasievna  might  brusli  his  luiir,  kissed  lier  hand, 
and  drank  a  coui)le  of  mouthfnls  of  tea.  \'asily 
Ivanovitch  revived  somewhat. 

"Thank  God!  "-lie  kept  repeating:-"  the 
crisis  has  come  ....  the  crisis  has  come!  " 

"  Eka,  what  art  tiiou  thiid<ing  of  ^  "  —  .said  Ba- 
zaroff :  — "  what  does  that  word  signify  ^  lie  has 
hit  upon  it;  he  has  .said,  '  the  erisis,"  and  is  com- 
forted. It  is  astounding  liow  a  man  still  has  faith 
in  words.  If  people  call  him  a  I'ool,  for  example, 
and  yet  do  not  beat  him,  he  grows  melaneholy ;  if 
they  call  him  a  clever  fellow,  and  yet  give  him  no 
money,  — he  feels  .satisfaetion." 

33.5 


FATHERS  AND  CTITT.DKKX 

This  little  speech  of  BazarofF's,  which  recalled 
his  former  "  sallies,"  touched  Vasily  Ivanovitch. 

"Bravo!  Splendidly  said,  splendidly!  "  —  he 
exclaimed,  pretending  to  clap  liis  hands. 

Bazaroff  laughed  sadly. 

"  Well  then,  according  to  thy  o])inion,"  —  he 
said, — "  is  the  crisis  ])ast,  or  is  it  heginning?  " 

"  Thou  art  hettei-.  that  is  what  I  see,  that  is 
what  delights  me,"  — rei:)lie(l  Vasily  Ivanovitch. 

"  Well,  very  good;  it  is  never  a  bad  thing  to  re- 
joice. And  hast  thou  sent  to  her?  thou  remem- 
berest?" 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

The  change  for  the  better  did  not  last  long. 
The  assaults  of  the  malady  \vere  renewed.  Vasilv 
Ivanovitch  sat  by  BazarofF's  side.  It  seemed  as 
though  some  special  anguish  were  torturing  the' 
old  man.  Several  times  he  was  on  the  point  of 
speaking— and  could  not. 

"Evgeny!"— he  blurted  out  at  last:  — "my 
son,  my  dear,  precious  son." 

This  unusual  appeal  took  effect  upon  Bazaroff. 
....  He  turned  his  head  a  little,  and,  evidently 
striving  to  escape  from  beneath  the  burden  of 
oblivion  which  was  weighing  him  down,  he  articu- 
lated:-" What,  my  father?  " 

"  Evgeny,"— went  on  A^asily  Ivanovitch,  and 
sank  down  on  his  knees  beside  Bazaroff,  although 
the  latter  did  not  o])en  his  eyes,  and  did  not  see 
him.  —  "  Evgeny,  thou  art  l)etter  now:  God  grant 

336 


FATIIKKS   AM)   C  IIILDinA 

tliat  tliou  inayest  ircovir:  hut  take-  a<lvaiita^f  of 
this  time,  comfort  tliy  motiui-  and  riic  fulfil  th\ 
C'liristian  duty!  It  is  ttrrihli-  for  me  lo  sa\  this 
to  thee;  hut  it  is  still  more  terril)le  .  .  .  ff)nver, 
thou  knowest,  Kvgeny   .   .   .   rtficct,  wiiat " 

Tlie  old  man's  Noiee  hroke.  and  a  stran^rr  r\- 
pressiou  ere])t  across  tlie  face  of  his  son,  .iltliou^di 
he  continued  to  lie  with  closed  eyes.  ■  I  do  not 
refuse,  if  it  can  give  you  comfort,"  -  he  said  at 
hist;  "  hut  it  seems  to  me  tliat  there  is  no  need  of 
haste  as  yet.  Thou  thyself  sayest  that  I  am 
better." 

"  Thou  art  better,  Kvgeny,  thou  art  h(.tt<.i-;  hut 
who  knows,  for  all  that  depends  ujxni  the  will  of 
God,  and  when  thou  hast  fulfilled  thy  duty "" 

"No,  1  will  wait,"  —  interrupted  Hazarof!'.  "  I 
agree  with  thee  that  the  crisis  has  arrivtd.  Hut  if 
we  are  both  mistaken,  what  then:'  They  givt-  tlie 
communion  to  the  unconscious  also." 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  Evgeny.  .  .  ." 

"  I  will  wait.  And  now  I  want  to  sleep.  Don't 
disturb  me." 

And  he  laid  his  head  in  its  former  position. 

The  old  man  rose,  seated  himself  in  the  arm- 
chair, and  gripi)ing  his  chin,  l)egan   to  hitc  his 

fingers.  .  . 

The  rumble  of  a  carriage  with  springs."  that 
sound  whicli  is  peculiarly  !ioticeal)l('  in  th(   de|)ths 

1  On  account  of  tin-  Kid  roads,  most  larriajfrs  for  i-ountrv  «-<■  arr 
built  without  sprintrs.  -THvssiATtm. 

'Mi7 


FATHERS    xVXD    CHILDREN 

of  the  country,  suddenly  struck  his  ear.  Xearer, 
nearer  rolled  the  light  wheels ;  and  now  the  snort- 
ing of  horses  was  audible.  .  .  .  Vasil}'  Ivanovitch 
sprang  to  liis  feet  and  rushed  to  the  window.  A 
two-seated  cari'iage,  drawn  by  four  horses,  was 
driving  into  tlie  court-vard  of  his  tiny  house. 
\\'ithout  pausing  to  consider  what  this  might  sig- 
nify, he  ran  out  on  the  porch,  in  an  outburst  of 
senseless  joy.  ...  A  liveried  lackey  opened  the 
carriage  door ;  a  lady  with  a  black  \'eil  and  a  black 
mantle  alighted  from  it.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  Madame  Odintzoif," — she  said.  — "  Is 
Evgeny  Vasilitch  alive?  You  are  his  father? 
I  have  brought  a  doctor  with  me" 

"  Benefactress!  "—exclaimed  Vasily  Ivano- 
vitch, and  seizing  her  hand,  he  pressed  it  con- 
vulsively to  his  lips,  while  the  doctor  whom  Anna 
Sergyeevna  had  brought,  a  small  man  in  specta- 
cles, with  a  German  physiognomy,  alighted  in  a 
leisurely  way  from  the  carriage.  "  He  is  still 
alive;  my  Evgeny  is  alive,  and  now  he  will  be 
saved !  Wife !  wife !  .  .  .  An  angel  from  heaven 
has  come  to  us.  .  .  ." 

"What  is  it,  O  Lord!" — stammered  the  old 
woman,  as  she  ran  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and 
comprehending  notliing  then  and  there  in  the 
anteroom,  fell  at  the  feet  of  Anna  Sergyeevna, 
and  began,  like  a  mad  woman,  to  kiss  her  gown. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  AMiat  are  you  doing  ?  " 
— Anna  Sergyeevna  kept  reiterating;  but  Arina 

338 


FATITKUS  AM)  CIIILl)in<:N 

Vliisievnu  paid  no  liccd  to  licr.  luid  \'asily  Ivano- 
vitch  merely  repeated:  "An  atioel!  an  an^r,I!" 

''  Wo  ist  dcr  Kranhcf  And  wIktc  is  lli.  pa- 
tient? "  said  the  doctor  at  last,  not  witliont  some 
indignation. 

Vasily  Ivanoviteli  eaine  to  liis  senses.-  "  Here, 
here,  please  follow  ine,  x^irthcstcr  11  err  Knllcf^i'," 
—  he  added,  reviving  an  ancient  memory. 

"  Eh!  "  — ejacnlated  the  (icrman,  and  made  a 
sour  grimace. 

Vasily  Ivanoviteli  conducted  him  to  the  study. 

"The  doctoi-  I'rom  Anna  Sergyeevna  Odin- 
tzoff," — he  said,  hending  down  to  iiis  sons  very 
ear;  —  "  and  she  is  here  herseli'." 

Bazjiroff  suddeidy  opened  his  eyes.  —  "  \\'hat 
didst  thou  saj'?  " 

"1  say  that  Anna  Sergyeevna  Odi'ntzoff  is 
here,  and  has  hrought  her  doctor  to  thee." 

I^aziiroff*  gazed  ahout  him.  "  She  is  here.  .  . 
I  want  to  see  her." 

"  Thou  shalt  see  her,  Kvgeny ;  hut  first  the  doc- 
tor and  I  must  have  a  talk.  1  will  narrate  to  him 
the  whole  history  ol'  thy  illness,  since  .Sidoi- 
Sidoritch  "  (this  was  the  name  ol'  tlu  district 
physician)  "has  gone  away,  and  we  will  hold  a 
little  consultation" 

Baziiroft'  glanced  at  llie  dei-man.  "Well, 
have  your  talk  as  (}uickly  as  j)ossihle,  ordy  not  in 
Latin,  for  1  understand  the  meaning  of  j<tiii 
moritur." 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

"  Der  II err  scheint  des  Deutschen  mdchtig  zu 
sein" — began  the  new  disciple  of  ^Esculapius 
turning  to  Vasily  Ivanovitch. 

"  Ich  ....  habe  .  .  .  you  had  better  talk 
Russian,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Ah,  ah !  so  dat  's  de  vay  it  ees.  .  .  As  j  ou  like 
..."  And  the  consultation  began. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Anna  Sergyeevna,  escorted 
by  Vasily  lyanovitch,  entered  the  room.  The  doc- 
tor  had  contrived  to  whisper  to  her  that  the  recov- 
ery of  the  sick  man  w^as  not  to  be  thought  of. 

She  cast  a  glance  at  Bazaroff  .  .  .  and  halted 
at  the  door,  so  startled  was  she  by  his  swollen  and, 
at  the  same  time,  corpse-like  face,  with  its  dimmed 
eyes  riveted  upon  her.  She  was  simply  fright- 
ened, with  a  sort  of  cold  and  insufferable  dread; 
the  thought  that  she  would  not  have  felt  like 
that  if  she  were  really  in  love  with  him,  flashed 
instantaneously  through  her  mind. 

"  Thank  you," — he  said,  with  an  effort; — "  I 
did  not  expect  this.  It  is  a  good  deed.  So  we 
have  met  again,  as  you  promised." 

"  Anna  Sergyeevna  has  been  so  kind," — began 
Vasily  Ivanovitch. 

"  Father,  leave  us. — Anna  Sergyeevna,  you 
permit  me?    I  think  that  now  .  .  ." 

He  indicated  his  feeble,  outstretched  body  with 
a  movement  of  his  head. 

Vasily  Ivanovitch  withdrew. 

"  Thanks," — repeated  BazarofF.— "  This  is  a 

340 


FATHERS  AM)  CIIILDHKN 

deed  in  royal  style.     They  sav  Uial   T/ars  also 
visit  the  dying." 

"  Evgeny  Vasilitch,  ]  hope  .  .  .  ." 

"  Ekh,  Anna  Sergyeevna,  let  us  speak  the 
truth.  I  am  done  for.  1  have  fallen  under  tlie 
wheel.  And  it  turns  out  that  there  was  no  \wcd 
to  think  of  the  future.  Death  is  an  aneient  jest. 
but  new  to  eaeh  person.  So  far,  1  am  not  afraid 
....  and  then  unef)nseiousness  will  eome,  and 
fuit!"  (He  waved  his  hand  feebly.) —"  Well, 
what 's  the  use  of  my  saying  to  you  .  .  .  .'  I  Jove 
you  '  !  That  had  no  sense  before,  mueh  less  now. 
Love  is  a  form,  and  my  own  form  is  alreadx'  de- 
composing.  I  had  better  say  that  — what  a  s})len- 
did  woman  you  are!  And  now  you  stand  there,  so 
beautiful.  ..." 

Anna  Sergyeevna  involuntarily  shuddered. 

"  Never  mind,  be  not  disturbed  ....  sit  down 
there.  .  .  Don't  come  near  me:  for  my  maladx 
is  contagious." 

Anna  Sergyeevna  swiftly  crossed  the  room  and 
seated  herself  in  an  arm-chair  l)eside  the  divan 
on  which  Bazaroff  lay. 

"  Magnanimous!  "  —  he  whispered.  "  Okh, 
how  near,  and  how  young,  and  fresh,  and  pure 
....  in  this  hateful  room!  ....  Well,  good- 
bye! may  you  live  long;  that  is  the  best  thing  of 
all;  and  enioy  yourself  while  yet  there  is  time. 
Behold,  what  a  disgusting  s])ectacle:  the  worm  is 
half  crushed,  yet  it  l)ristles  up.     And,  \nu  see.  1 

3U 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

thought  also:  I  will  yet  accomplish  many  deeds;  1 
shall  not  die — not  I!  there's  the  aim,  for  1  am 
a  giant!  And  now  the  giant's  whole  problem 
is  to  die  decorously,  although  no  one  cares  about 

that It  makes  no  difference;  1  will  not 

evade  the  issue." 

Bazaroff  ceased  speaking  and  began  to  feel  for 
his  glass.  Anna  Sergyee\'na  gave  him  a  drink, 
without  removing  her  glove,  and  breathing  timor- 
ously the  while. 

"You  will  forget  me," — he  began  again; — 
"  the  dead  is  no  fit  comrade  for  the  living.  INIy 
father  will  tell  vou,  '  Just  see  what  a  man  Russia 
is  losing.'  .  .  .  That  is  nonsense,  but  do  not  un- 
deceive the  old  man.  Anything  for  the  sake  of 
soothing  the  child  ....  you  know.  And  treat 
my  mother  kindly.  For  such  people  as  they  are 
not  to  be  found  in  vour  grand  society,  even  in  the 

day-time  with  a  light I  am  necessary  to 

Russia.  .  .  .  No,  evidently,  I  am  not  necessary. 
And  who  is?  A  shoemaker  is  necessary,  a  tailor 
is  necessary,  so  is  a  butcher ;  ....  he  sells  meat, 
....  a  butcher;  ....  stay,  1  am  getting 
mixed  up Yonder  is  a  forest  .  .  ." 

Bazaroff  laid  his  hand  on  his  brow. 

Anna  Sergyeevna  bent  toward  him.  — "  Ev- 
geny  Vasilitch,  I  am  here  .  .  .  ." 

He  instantly  clasped  her  hand  and  half  sat  up. 
— "  Farewell," — he  said,  with  sudden  force,  and 
his  eyes  flashed  with  their  last  gleam.  — "  Fare- 

342 


FATHERS    AM)    ClllLDKKN 

well.  .  .  Listen  ....  you  know.  1  did  not  kis.s 
you  then.  .  .  .  Breatlie  upon  the  expiring  hinip, 
and  let  it  he  extinguished 

Anna  Sergyeevna  touelied  lier  Hps  to  his  hrow. 

"  Knough!  "  —  he  said,  and  (h-op|)e(l  hack  mi  liis 
pillow.  — "  Now  ....  darkness  ..." 

Anna  Sergveevna  sol'tlv  kit  the  r<M)iii. — 
"AVell?"  —  Vasily  Ivanoviteli  asked  Ikt  in  a 
whisper. 

"  He  has  fallen  asleep,"  —  she  replietk  in  a 
harely  audihle  tone. 

Baziirotf'  was  not  i'ated  to  wake  again.  To- 
ward evening  he  I'ell  into  complete  uneonseious- 
ness,  and  on  the  following  day  lie  (hcii.  I'athcr 
Alexyei  performed  over  him  the  rites  ol'  rchgion. 
When  he  was  anointed,'  when  tlic  holy  chrism 
touched  his  hrea.st,  one  of  his  cyi-s  ojx-ncd.  and 
it  seemed  as  though,  at  the  sight  of  the  \)V\vs[  in 
his  vestments,  of  the  smoking  eenser,  the  light  in 
front  of  the  holy  picture,  something  resemhling 
a  shudder  of  fear  was  reflected  on  the  dying  faci-. 
When  at  last  he  hreathed  his  last  sigh,  and  uni- 
versal groaning  arose  in  the  house,  \'asily  l\a- 
novitch  was  .seized  with  a  sudtlen  transpoit  of  \  i*)- 
lence.  "  I  said  that  1  would  re|)inc,"  he  shouted 
hoarsely,  with  a  flaming,  distorted  i-onntcnance. 
shaking  his  flst  in  the  air.  as  tliongli  lu-  were  mcn- 

'  The  Hitf  of  Holy  Unction  in  Hn-  CatliDlic  C'luirchof  th«-  I-jiM  <liff«-r» 
from  Isxtrfnie  rnttion  in  tln>  Komin  Clmnli.  in  tliat  Miiioiijr  ..thrr 
points)  it  may  be  administered  wlun  the  MitTtrei  is  not  ex|>€>ftctl  to 
di«:  for  healing  only,  in  the  Ajxistolic  sense.— Tiianslat»)H. 

:34d 


FATHERS   AND  CIIILDREX 

acing  some  one.  "  And  T  will  repine,  I  will  re- 
pine! "  But  Arina  Vlasievna,  all  in  tears,  flung 
herself  upon  his  neck,  and  both  fell  on  their  knees. 
— "  So,"  —  as  Anfisushka  afterward  narrated  in 
the  servants'  hall,  —  "  they  bowed  their  heads  side 
by  side,  like  sheep  at  noonday.  .  .  ." 

But  the  midday  heat  passes  and  evening  draws 
on.  and  the  night,  and  then  comes  the  return  to 
the  quiet  refuge,  where  the  suffering  and  the 
%\eary  find  sweet  repose.  .  .  . 


844 


XXVIII 

Six  niojitlis  have  ])as,sc'(l.  Tlic  wliitt  \siiit(  r  lias 
come,  M'ith  its  stern  stillness  of  cloiKJicss  frosts, 
dense  creaking  snow,  rosy  hoar-frost  on  llu-  trees, 
pale-enierahl  sky,  caps  of  smoke  ahoM-  the  chim- 
neys, chimps  of  steam  from  the  doors  oj)ened  for  a 
moment,  the  fresli  faces,  as  though  hitten.  of  the 
people,  and  the  hustling  trot  of  henumhed  horses. 
The  January  dav  is  already  drawing  to  its  close: 

•  •  •  ■ 

the  eyening  chill  is  seizing  the  motionless  air  in  a 
still  tighter  grip,  and  the  hlood-red  sunset  is  dy- 
ing out.  The  lights  have  heen  UindKd  in  the  win- 
dows of  the  house  at  Marino;  I*rok('>fitch,  in  a 
black  dress  suit  and  white  gloves,  is  laying  the 
table  for  seven  persons.  A  week  jjrtviously,  in 
the  little  parish  church,  (luiclly.  and  almost  with- 
out witnesses,  two  weddings  had  taken  place: 
Arkady's  to  Ksitva,  and  Nikolai  Petrovitch's  to 
Fenitchka;  and  on  the  day  in  (luestion 
Nikolai  Petroviteh  is  giving  a  farewell  din- 
ner for  his  brother,  who  is  about  to  take  his 
departure  for  Moscow  on  business.  Anna 
Sergyeevna  had  gone  thither  also  immediately 
after  the  wedding,  after  having  lavishly  endowed 
the  young  coui)le.      Precisely  at  three  o'clock  all 

34.'> 


FATHERS  AND  CIIILDREX 

assembled  round  the  table,  Mitya  was  placed 
tliere  also:  he  had  been  provided  with  a  nurse,  in 
a  tj"lazed  brocade  coronet-cap.  Pavel  Petrovitch 
took  his  seat  between  Katya  and  Fenitchka:  the 
"  husbands  "  settled  themselves  beside  their  wives. 
Our  acquaintances  have  changed  of  late:  all  of 
them  seem  to  have  grown  handsomer  and  more 
manly:  Pavel  Petrovitch  alone  has  grown  thin, 
which,  however,  has  imparted  still  more  elegance 
and  grand-seigueurmn  to  his  expressive  features. 
.  .  .  And  Fenitchka  also  has  become  a  different 
person.  In  a  fresh  silken  gown,  with  a  gold  chain 
on  her  neck,  she  sat  with  respectful  composure, — 
respectful  toward  herself,  toward  everything 
which  surrounded  her,  and  smiled,  as  though  she 
wished  to  saj^:  "  You  must  excuse  me,  I  am  not 
to  blame."  And  not  she  alone,  but  all  the  others 
smiled  also,  and  seemed  to  be  excusing  them- 
selves ;  all  felt  somewhat  awkward,  somewhat  sad, 
and,  in  reality,  very  comfortable.  Each  one  lis- 
tened to  the  other  with  amusing  amiabilit}',  as 
though  all  of  them  had  entered  into  an  agreement 
to  plav  some  artless  comedy.  Katva  was  more 
comj)osed  than  all  the  rest:  she  gazed  confidingly 
4d)out  her,  and  was  able  to  observe  that  Xikolai 
Petrovitch  had  already  succeeded  in  falling  head 
over  ears  in  love  with  her.  Before  the  end  of  the 
dinner  he  rose,  and  taking  his  wine-glass  in  hand, 
he  addressed  himself  to  Pavel  Petrovitch : 

"  Thou  art  leaving  us  ...  .  thou  art  leaving 

346 


FATIIKUS   AM)  C  Illl.DUKX 

us,  my  (k'iir  brother,"-  Ir-  l)C'^aii:  "  ol  ((hhm-, 
not  for  lontr;  hut,  ru'vi  rlluliss,  I  caiiiiol  r(  finiii 
from  expressing  to  tliee  thai  I  .  .  .  .  I  hat  wo 
.  .  .  .  so  far  as  I  ....  so  far  as  \\v  .... 
That  's  the  diffieulty,  that  \\e  do  not  know  liou  to 
make  speeehes!     .iVrkady,  do  tlioii  s|MakI" 

"  No.  ])apa,  I  am  not  |)rc  paird.  " 

"  And  I  pre])ared  myself  finely!  .Simplx  tluii. 
brother,  permit  me  to  embraee  thee,  to  wish  thee 
all  that  is  good,  and  retni-n  to  us  as  sj)rcdily  ;is 
possible!  " 

Pavel  Petroviteh  kissed  all  present,  not  cxelud- 
ing  Mitya,  of  course;  over  and  above  this,  he 
kissed  Fenitchka's  hand,  which  siie  did  not  know 
how  to  offer  properly,  and  draining  his  glass, 
which  had  \)een  filled  for  the  second  time,  he  said, 
with  a  profound  sigh:  "Be  happy,  my  friends! 
Fareicell!" — This  English  tail  to  his  sj)eeeh 
passed  unnoticed,  but  all  were  touelied. 

"  In  memory  of  BazarofF,"  — whispered  Katya 
in  her  husband's  ear,  as  she  clinked  glasses  with 
him.  In  reply,  Arkady  ])ressed  her  hand  warnd\ . 
but  could  not  bring  himself  to  pro})ose  tiiat  toast 
aloud. 

This  would  appear  to  be  the  end  ^  But  jkt- 
chance  some  one  of  our  readers  would  like  to 
know  what  each  one  of  the  persons  whom  \\i-  have 
introduced  is  doing  now,  precisely  at  the  |)re.sent 
moment.     We  are  ready  to  gratify  hiin. 

Anna  Sergyeevna  has  recently  married,  not  for 

347 


FATHERS    AND    CHILDREN 

love,  but  from  conviction,  one  of  the  future  promi- 
nent men  of  Russia,  a  very  clever  man,  a  lawyer 
with  strong  practical  sense,  a  firm  will,  and  a  re- 
markable gift  of  words,— a  man  who  is  still 
young,  kind,  and  cold  as  ice.  They  live  on  good 
terms  with  each  other,  and  will,  in  all  probability, 
attain  to  happiness  .  .  .  perchance  to  love.  Prin- 
cess X.  .  .  has  died,  forgotten  on  the  very  day  of 
her  death.  The  KirsanofF's.  father  and  son,  have 
settled  down  in  Marino.  Their  affairs  are  begin- 
ning to  right  themselves.  Arkady  has  become  an 
ardent  farmer,  and  the  "  farm  "  already  yields 
a  fairly  large  income.  Nikolai  Petrovitch  has 
been  made  an  Arbitrator  of  the  Peace, ^  and  toils 
with  all  his  might;  he  is  incessantly  travelling 
about  over  his  section ;  he  makes  long  speeches  ( he 
is  of  the  opinion  that  the  peasants  must  be 
"  taught,"  that  is  to  say,  they  must  be  reduced  to 
a  state  of  exhaustion  by  frequent  repetition  of  one 
and  the  same  set  of  words),  and,  nevertheless,  to 
tell  the  truth,  he  does  not  wholly  satisfy  either 
the  cultivated  nobles,  who  talk  now  with  chic  and 
again  with  melancholy,  about  the  wawcipation 
(pronouncing  the  man  through  their  noses),  nor 
the  uneducated  nobles,  who  unceremoniously  re- 
vile "  thot  77i?/7?cipation."  He  is  too  tender  to  suit 
either  party.     A  son,  Kolya,  has  been  born  to 

1  A  class  of  officials,  appointed  after  the  emancipation  of  the  serfs, 
to  adjust  the  questions  which  arose  between  the  landed  proprietors 
:ind  the  serfs  as  to  the  division  of  the  land.— Translator. 

348 


FATTIKKS    AM)   CI  I  I  1  Din^X 

Katerina  Sorgyecx  iia.  and  .Milya  is  already  run- 
ning about  like  a  fine,  dasliin^'  I'clluw,  and  chat- 
ters volubly.  I^Y'nitclika  (  Ft-dosya  \  ik<)l;i(\  ua  ) 
adores  no  one— ai'ter  Ik  r  husband  and  son  so 
much  as  her  (lau<>htei--in-la\\ ,  and  wlun  Iht-  hitter 
seats  herself  at  the  ])iau()  she  is  delinhlcd  not  to 
leave  her  all  day  loiii)-.  l?y  the  way.  let  us  niaki- 
mention  of  Piotr.  lie  has  stiffened  up  I'oi-  o()o(|. 
with  stupidity  and  j)()nii)()usness,  pronomiirs 
every  c  like  in:  tiupiur,  ()J)inzpiiitc}iiini,^  but  he 
also  has  married,  and  aecjuired  a  \ery  respeetable 
dowry  with  his  bride,  the  daughter  of  a  market- 
gardener  in  the  town,  who  refused  two  fine  suit- 
ors, merely  because  they  did  not  possess  watches: 
but  Piotr  not  only  had  a  watch,  but  patent-leather 
half -boots  into  the  bargain. 

In  Dresden,  on  the  Briihl  terrace,  between  two 
and  four  o'clock,  at  the  most  fashional)le  time  for 
promenading,  you  may  meet  a  man  about  fifty 
years  of  age,  who  is  already  c()mj)letely  grew  and 
seems  to  be  suffering  from  gout,  l)ut  is  still  hand- 
some, elegantly  attired,  and  with  that  peculiar 
stamp  which  a  man  ac(]uires  only  by  long  asso- 
ciation with  the  highest  classes  of  society.  'IMiis 
man  is  Pavel  Petrovitch.  He  has  (juitted  Mos- 
cow and  gone  abroad  to  restore  liis  health,  and 
has  taken  up  his  residence  in  Dresden,  where  he 
consorts  mostly  with  the  Knglish  and  w  ith  travel- 

1  Instead  of /f per  (now');  ohezpe'trhtn  {\^n^\\AcA  furl      Th^ksi^toii 

3H> 


FATHERS   AND  CIIIT.DREN 

ling  Russians.  With  the  Enghsh,  his  manner  is 
simple,  abiiost  modest,  yet  not  lacking  in  dignity; 
they  find  him  rather  tiresome,  but  respect  in  him 
a  perfect  gentleman.  With  the  Russians  he  is 
more  at  his  ease,  gives  free  play  to  his  bile,  sneers 
at  himself  and  at  them ;  but  all  this  is  very  charm- 
ing, and  careless,  and  decorous,  as  he  does  it.  He 
entertains  Slavyan()})hil  views:  every  one  knows 
that  this  is  considered  Ires  distingue  in  the  upper 
circles.  He  never  reads  anything  in  Russian,  but 
on  his  writing-table  there  is  a  silver  ash-tray  in 
the  form  of  a  peasant's  bast  slipj^er.  Our  tourists 
run  after  him  a  great  deal.  INIatvyei  Hitch  Kol- 
yazin,  when  he  was  in  temporary  opposition,  paid 
him  a  majestic  visit,  as  he  was  passing  through 
on  his  way  to  a  Bohemian  watering-place;  and 
the  natives,  with  whom,  however,  he  has  very  little 
to  do,  fairly  revere  him.  Xo  one  can  obtain  a 
ticket  for  the  Court  Choir,  the  theatre,  and  so 
forth,  so  easily  and  so  quickly  as  der  Ilerr  Baron 
von  Kirsdnoff.  He  always  does  as  much' good  as 
can;  he  still  makes  some  noise:  not  for  nothing 
had  he  once  been  a  lion;— but  life  is  painful  for 
him — more  painful  than  he  himself  suspects. 
.  .  .  One  needs  but  to  watch  him  in  the  Russian 
church,  when,  leaning  against  the  wall,  apart,  he 
falls  into  thought,  and  does  not  move  for  a  long 
time,  bitterly  setting  his  teeth,  then  suddenly  he 
comes  to  himself,  and  begins,  almost  imperce])ti- 
l)ly,  to  cross  himself.  .  .  . 

Madame  Kukshin  also  has  gone  abroad.     She 

350 


FATIIKHS   AM)   CIIII.DHKN 

is  now  in  Ilt'idelber*^',  and  is  sliidyini;-  the  natinal 
sciences  no  more,  but  aivhitcctuir,  in  wliicli.  ac- 
cording to  her  statement,  she  has  thscovcred  new 
laws.  As  of  yore,  she  liaunts  tlie  society  of  stu- 
dents, especially  that  oi'  the  youiii;-  Kussian  j)hysi- 
cists  and  cliemists,  with  whom  I  Icidclherg  is  filled, 
and  who,  after  at  first  ama/ing  the  simple-minded 
German  professors  with  their  sober  views  of 
things,  afterward  ama/e  those  same  ])rofessors 
with  their  utter  idleness  and  absolute  laziness. 
With  two  or  three  chemists  of  this  description, 
who  cannot  distinguish  oxygen  from  niti-ogen, 
but  are  filled  full  of  self-abnegation  and  resix-et 
for  themselves,  and  with  the  great  Kli.syevitch. 
Sitnikoff,  who  also  is  preparing  to  be  great,  is 
sauntering  about  Petersburg,  and,  according  to 
his  own  statement,  is  carrying  on  lia/aroff's 
"  cause."  It  is  said  that  some  one  recently  ga\ c 
him  a  thrashing,  but  he  did  not  remain  in  debt: 
in  an  obscure  little  article,  inserted  in  an  ob- 
scure little  newspaper,  he  hinted  that  the  man  \\  Im 
had  thrashed  him  was  a  coward.  He  calls  this 
irony.  His  father  torments  him,  as  of  yore,  and 
his  wife  considers  him  a  fool  .  .  .  and  a  literai\ 
man. 

There  is  a  small  village  cemetery  In  one  of  the 
remote  corners  oi'  Russia.  Like  almost  all  otn 
cemeteries,  it  ])resents  a  sorry  as|)ect :  the  trench 
which  surrounds  it  has  longsiiu'c  bee?i  o\(  rgrown: 
the  grey  wooden  crosses  have  (lrooi>ed  and  are  rot- 
ting beneath  their  ])enthouses.  which  once  wen 

Sol 


FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN 

painted ;  tlie  stone  slabs  are  all  out  of  place,  as 
though  some  one  were  thrusting  them  up  from  be- 
low; two  or  three  deruuled  trees  barely  afford  a 
scanty  shade;  shee])  wander  unchecked  over  the 
graves.  —  But  among  these  there  is  one,  which  no 
man  touches,  which  no  beast  tramples  on:  only 
the  birds  alight  u})()n  it  and  carol  at  the  dawn. 
An  iron  railing  surrounds  it;  two  young  fir-trees 
are  ])lanted  at  each  end  of  it :  Evgeny  Bazaroff  is 
})uried  in  that  grave.  Thither,  from  the  hamlet 
hard  by,  two  old  people,  already  decrepit — hus- 
band and  wife — come  frequently.  Supporting 
each  other,  they  advance  with  painful  tread ;  they 
approach  the  railing,  fall  upon  their  knees,  and 
\veep  long  and  bitterly,  and  gaze  long  and  atten- 
tively at  the  dumb  stone,  beneath  which  lies  their 
son ;  they  exchange  a  brief  word,  remove  the  dust 
from  the  stone,  adjust  the  branches  of  the  fir- 
trees,  and  again  fall  to  praying,  and  cannot  quit 
that  spot,  where  they  seem  to  be  nearer  to  their 
son,  to  their  memories  of  him.  .  .  Can  it  be  that 
their  prayers,  their  tears,  are  fruitless?  Can  it  be 
that  love,  holy,  devoted  love,  is  not  all-powerful? 
Oh,  no!  However  passionate,  sinful,  rebellious, 
may  be  the  heart  which  has  taken  refuge  in  the 
grave,  the  flowers  which  grow  upon  it  gaze  tran- 
quilly at  us  with  their  innocent  eyes:  not  alone  of 
eternal  repose  do  they  s])eak  to  us,  of  that  great 
repose  of  "  indifferent  "  nature;  they  speak  also 
of  eternal  reconciliation  and  of  life  everlasting.  .  . 


352 


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